


Be Still

by thisonegoes



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Detectives, Blood and Injury, Bruises, CSI Style, Child Murder, Childhood Trauma, Choking, Detective Zayn, Fist Fights, Graphic Description of Corpses, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Memory Loss, Murder, Murder Mystery, Musician Harry, Past Character Death, Sad Zayn, Sleepy Boys, Slow Build, Stabbing, This is Zayn's story, Trust Issues, but not as a precursor to romance or a love scene, knife injuries, there is a graphic fist fight
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-29
Updated: 2017-08-13
Packaged: 2018-09-13 02:47:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 150,332
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9103087
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thisonegoes/pseuds/thisonegoes
Summary: Zayn hears the telltale sound of stretcher wheels bouncing up over a weather strip. A tech backs out of the door first, as both Zayn and Harry turn to watch. They wheel the black body bag out and lift it down the stairs, to take her away. She's officially cleared for transport, no longer a resident of the household. She's now just a corpse wrapped in plastic.When they finally turn back to one another, Harry blinks and then shatters into pieces.Detective Zayn AU.





	1. DAY 1

**Author's Note:**

> I was in the middle of writing this when March 25th happened. I know I've written fic since then, but I want to get back into this one. I hope you like it so far.
> 
> Thank you Jasmine and Britt.

Ghosts are real.

Don’t let anyone tell you they’re not, or that if you feel one, it’s in your head. There's too much evidence, eye witness accounts and odd feelings, cold breaths on necks, goose bumps, sounds that go bump in the night, for spirits to be a fluke of the imagination.

Zayn has felt some, as they creep and crawl around floorboards, like phantom cats trying to catch mice. He's heard them playing. Laughing. Taunting him when he can’t sleep. They like to chase and knock on walls, like it's a game between childhood friends. Wood creaking, long winded wails that aren’t quite the wind, a touch to the arm. They're real and they want you to know it.

It would be surprising to some people, especially to his colleagues, Zayn's belief in the unknown. So like many things, like all things, he keeps it close.

Ghosts are real. They want to be heard, to be known, in a world that so often forgets the dead once they're gone.

Zayn doesn't forget.

Zayn feels ghosts every day.

 

 

\---

 

**DAY 1**

 

 _March 19, 2019_  
_7:02 am_

She likes to play with Zayn's hair. She winds it, tugs it slightly, brushes it messily over his forehead instead of away from it. Sometimes she kisses his cheek, a cool press of lips, never a mark or wetness left behind. Zayn wonders if he reminds her of someone, if he's a long lost lover or perhaps a baby in a nursery. Maybe he's a husband she wants to wake up, a sweet wife with sweet words in his ear, words he can never quite make out.

Zayn swats at her this morning, tries with all his strength to make her leave, but she insists.

He never gives her the satisfaction of yelling out, never lets her have that extra energy. Zayn read once that ghosts take the energy around them to manifest, to move objects and shift the molecules in the air. Too proud, he won’t let her have that. But he does flit a hand against his cheek, to get her to leave him be.

She's gone by the time he opens his eyes. They always are.

But Zayn realizes, as he swings his feet to the bare floor in his cramped apartment, that it's his phone waking him up a full fifteen minutes before his alarm is set to go off. He fumbles for it with numb fingers, his eyes blurry, his boxers bunched up around his thighs.

"Malik," he mumbles, wiping the sleep from his eyes.

"Are you up?"

"I'm up."

"New case, just came in," CJ laments, hurried.

"Details, Ceej," Zayn reminds him. His junior detective tends to get caught up in their cases before Zayn even gets a first name, a crime, an idea for what the problem is. CJ's his right hand, the one to take their calls first thing, the man with the nice penmanship, good for endless hours of paperwork. He's young, like Zayn was when he got into the department, eager. He hasn't even thrown up yet, not while on a scene, so Zayn figures he's around for the long haul.

"Body in South O. Female, early twenties maybe. D-O-A."

"Bangers? A bust?"

CJ doesn't respond right away, the shuffling of papers and a radio being turned on behind him. He must be in their car already, must be on his way to pick Zayn up. Most of their recent cases have been gang related. In fact, all of the recent Omaha cases have been, the shootouts in North Omaha getting more and more violent. But the drug problem, the pallets of H and crank being brought up from Missouri seem to be never ending as well. There's been a crop of ODs the last few years, boxes littering the station, full of file folders detailing the kids from good families getting rocked by meth, their faces pocketed and yellow, their morgue shots too harsh under the halogen lighting.

Both have led to an influx of homicides in the sprawling Midwest metropolis, "the Kansas City of Fly-Over Country." Zayn's seen more gang deaths and drug hand-offs gone bad in the last few months than he has since he joined the force right out of college.

"No, neither," CJ surprises him. "Stabbing in a residence. Call just came in 'bout half hour ago."

The window near his bed looks out over the alley below. Zayn pulls his thick, grey curtains back and glances through the blinds quickly, to assess the day, before shutting them tight. He immediately doesn’t like the feel of it, unhappy with the overcast sky. He gets feelings some days, like before a big storm or a tornado warning, like the air is heavier. It feels different, and not just because he was woken up by a pair of cool lips. He places a hand to his own mouth, the thin skin cracking from the dry air, and tries to ready himself for the day.

Sometimes he still has to do that: remind his body to work correctly, after nights of tossing and turning, after he’s woken up from a sleeping pill haze. Zayn lives in a constant state of altering his melatonin, either by jolting himself awake with caffeine, or coming down from the day with an Ambien that only works about half the time.

Stabbing. In a residence. Zayn will need all the help he can get for this one. He rubs at his face and sighs, suddenly aware of CJ still on the other end of the phone.

"I’ll meet you outside. Bring coffee."

"Done."

\---

 _March 19, 2019_  
_7:31 am_

CJ tends to buy the shittiest coffee on the planet, not being a coffee drinker himself. It’s a learned skill, Zayn’s found, knowing what roast is decent. But also what coffee a person drinks or what sort of concoction one orders. He prefers straight black, or if he needs the jolt, a double Americano. CJ never orders it right, must get the lightest roast or smoothest finish, thinking it’s preferred and “less intense.” Zayn likes intense. He craves intense caffeine.

Zayn grips the Styrofoam cup between his palms, the one CJ’s future grandchildren won’t be able to recycle, as they make their way east on Dodge. The morning commuters halt them at every other intersection, since they don’t switch their lights on. There certainly isn’t an emergency to get to.

Outsiders think Omaha is a hick town, some little blip in Nebraska, not realizing the traffic is shit, the four-lane highways rival coastal cities, and the crime rate is through the roof. It’s a sprawling city, miles in each direction. Outsiders don’t realize the size of it, not much smaller (in square miles _and_ in population) than Portland or Atlanta. It’s not an easy place to live, the crime and taxes becoming more of a burden every year.

CJ swerves to avoid a mail truck, Zayn’s coffee sloshing precariously close to the lid. Zayn hates the coffee, and yet can’t imagine letting a drop of it go.

Zayn can feel it; there’s an odd energy to the car, the one he’s been riding in for years now. His boots make a perfect impression on both the driver and passenger side, his ass fits in the seats like a glove. CJ swerves again, but waves out the window to the mail truck he cuts off. When Zayn was a junior detective a few years back, alongside Alberto, he probably would’ve swiped it for being in his way. Zayn doesn’t mention it, since CJ’s on edge, his fingers in his mouth, his eyes darting from the sloshing streets ahead to the rear view. The ice has melted, spring is on its way, and he drives like he’s on a mad dash through Super Mario.

“What is your problem?” Zayn intones, straightening his tie.

He doesn’t want to see CJ on edge. He didn’t sleep well the night before, yet again. Either Ethel from this morning was blowing into his ear, or Jesse was stomping in the attic, or the twins were in his closet playing. He couldn’t pick up the exact sounds, not sure which of them decided to keep him up, but he had a hazy suspicion even in restless sleep that he should’ve been awake. It’s the vague tugging behind his eyelids that has always plagued him, that feeling of someone needing him. _Wake up. You’re missing it. You’re missing everything._ The Ambien he took before dinner did nothing, he fell in and out of a light sleep all night, worried.

“Just anxious,” CJ switches lanes again, for no reason, heading towards Center.

“Why?”

“I think… I just don’t like the feel of this one.”

“Do we have more details? Anything before we get there?”

“She was found this morning by a roommate, in a boarding house, a privately-owned residence that rents out four or five bedrooms. Some young girl, pretty and nice, I bet,” CJ scrunched his eyes, the nonexistent sunlight getting in them. CJ’s never puked at a crime scene, but he’s cried twice. It was to himself, and only as they got back into the car, but Zayn saw. “Just about to start her day. Someone stabbed her, easy as anything.”

“Well, it’s a shame,” Zayn leans his head against the seat rest. “You take the roommate first thing, then. I’ll talk to CSU and the first responders. Do we know who showed up first?”

“Starzak. He’s who called us in.”

“I’ll get him,” Zayn sighs.

“He said… It – he said she looked weird. The placement, something about her, threw him off.”

“How so?” Zayn turns to him finally. CJ’s not as good at Zayn at holding in his emotions, the frowns and stress line his face before he can stop them. His tone, the way his voice falls at the end, can never escape Zayn. Zayn’s been told he’s perceptive to the point of being creepy about it, so he knows, he always knows, when something is different.

“He’ll have to tell you.”

“Ceej, what did Starzak say to you on the phone? I need to know, I need to hear it from you before I hear it from him. First reaction, first impression.”

Zayn already has his leather folio unzipped and in his lap, pen in hand. Sometimes the first cops on the scene see things, notice things, even get feelings about certain spaces. And sometimes those thoughts or instincts get lost, shoved down, the tough men with badges and guns strapped to their waists too proud to admit their gut feelings and emotions. CJ is important now, the first person to hear about the crime, almost as much as Officer Starzak will be when they arrive on the scene.

“He said it felt planned. On purpose.”

“Pre meditated,” Zayn nods, jotting it down.

“No.”

Zayn looks up at him, the scruff along his chin getting long. He can’t grow it much longer otherwise it’ll be against policy, and Zayn might have to tell him to shave, but it’s not important.

“I don’t know. He just said it felt different,” CJ frowns. “Said she’d been stabbed in such a way and it just looked… odd.”

“Okay,” Zayn frowns to match, confused. “Why don’t you get him first thing then. See if he says anything else to you.”

“Her arms were crossed,” CJ talks over him, staring straight ahead, like he’s trying to remember and hold onto everything said to him over the phone not even an hour before. “Over her body, like she was in a grave already, lying on her back with her hands up on her chest.”

Zayn has a surge of adrenaline then, that painful, rushing feeling that spreads from the stomach outwards, through the lymphnodes and nerve endings, to his face, armpits, groin, extremities. It’s a feeling he gets late at night, and early mornings, when his body jolts awake or keeps him from slipping under in the first place.

“CJ, where are we going?” Zayn tries to level his voice, his hands shaking like maple leaves.

“Some house in South O,” his partner blinks a few times, head still far away, “South 32nd Ave, near that church with the Mary statue.”

CJ doesn’t survey the energy in the car like Zayn can. He doesn’t realize the tsunami he’s just created.

Zayn’s lungs shrivel up like raisins, his irises the size of pin needles. And all at once, he feels thirteen again, like he’s falling down a well waiting for the inevitable landing, the splash to break his fall.

 

\---

 _August 13, 2002_  
_11:17 pm_

Zayn’s pretty sure his mom is going to kill him.

Their bare feet look so dark on the bottoms, Zayn already dreads getting picked up in the morning. She’ll take one look at his feet and the scrapes on his knees, and know without a doubt that he walked around barefoot, outside and everything. She’ll whine about him getting tetanus, or worms, and probably kill him for it.

That's something he's come to expect from spending time with Jesse, in the Klein house. It's like the entire Klein family lived barefoot during the summer, their shoes lost in the front closet, or on the cracked front porch, or in the backyard that's small and yet a bottomless pit all at once.

Two months ago, Zayn lost his watch out in the Klein backyard, the one he got for his birthday, and his dad smacked him for it. It’s just that Zayn didn’t have a choice, and he really didn’t mean to lose it. Jesse had the Hope girls over that day, in the rickety playhouse meant for his little sisters. He made Zayn kiss Emma, while he kissed May, said their tongues had to be out the whole time. Zayn pretended to like it, but then he called out about playing hide and seek, rushed out of the plastic yellow and pink house, his watch long gone soon after. They were thirteen, way too old to play games, so he didn't get far before Jesse called him back, to stick his tongue out against May's instead.

Jesse is always barefoot. Tonight his soles look as black as tar, as he leans back in the wicker chair on the front porch. Zayn follows the movement to lean back in his own. Zayn loves Jesse's street, the way it's always moving. Omaha isn't small, it's pretty big compared to the rest of the state, but Zayn lives on the most boring block ever. No cars drive by, there aren't any neighborhood kids to run around with, all their neighbors old and dying. But Jesse's street has a double yellow line running down the center of it, so that means it's busy, cars whizzing past every few seconds, coming and going even in the dead of night. "Too busy," his mom always scoffs, whenever she drops him off to spend the night. "Please be careful and don't run out into traffic." As if they'd be dumb enough to do that, Zayn scoffs back with an eye roll.

Their feet bounce on the concrete ledge in front of them, their dirty toes visible to anyone driving down South 32nd, their sweaty faces on display.

That's another thing Zayn expects from spending time at the Klein house, a messy face. They either get mud on their cheeks from sitting in the overrun garden on the side of the house, or they slurp ice cream from the gas station across the street, their grubby hands paying the bored attendant for chocolate and strawberry with quarters Jesse finds in his mom's purse.

Jesse never has money of his own, since the Klein kids don't get allowances. But his mom always leaves her purse on the banister leading up the staircase. Jesse makes Zayn crouch down, his gross feet digging into Zayn's back, to step up to reach the cheap leather straps that hold the good money.

Tonight, it's late summer, only a week before school starts up for their eighth grade year, and the house behind their heads is quiet. Jesse's parents went to sleep early, before they even had all their kids home. Jesse's younger sister Cassie, only twelve, rolled in (barefoot) at nine, acting sassy with a hickey on her neck, chomping gum like she was in high school. Jesse called her nasty, they fought like a couple of cats, and Zayn had to pretend to look out for Cassie too, like a good older brother best friend. Zayn sometimes can't believe it, the way the Kleins can come and go as they please. His mom knows where he is at all times. He has zero freedom, whereas the Kleins run the neighborhood every day. Zayn can’t take a piss without his mom knowing. It's very annoying.

But now Jesse's brothers and sisters are asleep, the only sounds around them being the cars rushing past. They rub their stomachs, full from the peanut butter and jelly sandwiches Jesse can whip up in thirty seconds flat. He always makes Zayn watch, to see how fast he can go, two for each of them. Zayn only ever gets one sandwich at a time at home, his mom says no kid needs more than one, but Jesse always makes him two. In a household where food can sometimes be scarce, Zayn figured they'd save it. He'd never say that out loud, he wouldn't want to embarrass his best friend, of course. Zayn just watches, when Jesse hands him a spoonful of peanut butter, each and every time, for Zayn to lick at while he slathers the strawberry jelly onto slices of Wonderbread.

They’d been counting cars for over an hour, the white count huge compared to the blue and black. Not as many red cars tonight, Zayn noted. Jesse shrugged from boredom, so Zayn shut his mouth for a while.

Jesse sits up eventually, cracking his knuckles like he’s about to tell Zayn a secret.

"You ever burn leaves?" Jesse asks, a blue car clunking from left to right in front of the three-story house this stretch of town is known for. Before it turns into the Hispanic part of town, the South O side painted in bright colors and smelling of fresh tortillas, it's all Catholic families south of Dodge Street. Omaha is a Catholic city in general, completely run by followers of the Pope. But this isn’t West O, where they have fancy churches and expensive Catholic schools. This is the poor side. It's a sea of dirty, white faces, families with no money and upturned noses when it comes to birth control, a million kids running around, like the Kleins. This is where Zayn first went to school and met Jesse, before his parents got "better jobs" and moved Zayn to the boring neighborhood towards Midtown.

"Leaves? Like in a pile?" Zayn wonders. His dad rakes the leaves in their front yard, and for the old people along their block, but he hasn't burned them in years. Maybe it's illegal or something.

"No, one at a time. Like burn the leaves with little holes, to make them look like bugs ate them away or something."

"Why would you do that?"

"Why not?” Jesse frowns at him, angry. Jesse did that sometimes, made Zayn feel dumb. Well, maybe not dumb, but just inexperienced. Every time he's done something Zayn hasn't, something Zayn's never heard of, he acts like it's something Zayn should've learned in kindergarten. “Have you done it or not?”

"Seen it done before," Zayn lies with a shrug, trying to play it off. That's how Zayn usually responds, to fake the feeling of "cool" he's never quite grasped.

"Wanna do it?"

"But how?" Zayn scrunches up his face, confused. What's the point of making holes in leaves? Where's the fun in it?

Jesse and his siblings tend to make their own fun, of course, Zayn's always known that. They don't have cable and the laptop on their dining table is for work only, per their dad Mike. Jesse has a big imagination, because he sort of has to. There's Jesse and Cassie, the oldest kids, who make forts from blankets in the front sunroom just off the living room on rainy days. They're only a year apart, their parents' "unexpected surprises" one after the other when they were barely twenty, before the "babies" came along, Cara, Mariah, and Mikey Jr., in three successive years. Zayn's an only child, the only kid in his house, no one to mix up his comics with, no stray hair bands in his bathroom, no five, six, and seven year olds begging him to take them on adventures. He's never told Jesse, but his absolute favorite part about coming to the Klein house is the noise level, the kids all willing to play, the banging of little feet going up and down the wooden staircase at all hours of the night.

The Kleins exist in a vacuum of noise, laughter and stomping, doors slamming and cars honking just outside. Zayn's house is so quiet, he heard a mouse run across the floor once.

"I'll show you," Jesse wiggles his eyebrows, jumping up to head inside. He slams the massive front door behind them, not even masking the sound of their movements. If Zayn had been up past his parents, he'd at least tiptoe. Jesse barges.

He tells Zayn to wait, as he takes the stairs two at a time up to his bedroom. Jesse has his own, the house is so big, and he thanks his lucky stars every day that he installed that lock. He laughs it off, when he tells other kids that his sisters tried to get in one day when he was jerkin it, that he almost pushed them down the stairs before installing a lock easy as anything. But Zayn knows the real reason because he was there that day: Jesse's brother took something special to him, something he bought with his own money, and ruined it. Zayn never has to worry about anyone ruining his stuff, so when he expressed his sympathy, he’s not sure he sold it.

Zayn hears Jesse banging around in his bedroom, the one smack dab in the middle of his siblings’ rooms: Cassie to his right, the little girls to his left, and Mikey’s room next to theirs. They must all sleep like the dead.

Zayn glances around the quiet main floor, the moonlight filtering in through the open blinds along the dining room. He loves the Klein house, he really does. He begs his mom to bring him over, to run around wild all afternoon, the lies he tells his parents about staying put, tucked in his back pocket. They run the neighborhood, they jump on the Hope’s trampoline, they watch scary as shit movies in the creepy only-half-done basement. And after those idiots flew some planes into the Trade Center in New York last year, Zayn likes disappearing in a neighborhood full of parents too busy and stressed to give him a passing glance. His nice "fancy" neighborhood has too many eyes, too many "old Republicans" giving the Maliks undeserving stares. He saw his mom cry over it once, soon after it happened, when someone threw up middle fingers on their way outside of a movie theater. So for Zayn, disappearing with the poor Catholics is nice.

He loves it here. He does. But as he glances to the front windows now, he feels the bead of sweat go down his back. There's a duality to this house, the big one on the corner of 32nd and Arbor. It's big and looming, and yet each room feels cramped, contained, suffocating. It's right on the edge of "bad South O," close to the interstate. Jesse's mom loves her kids, she kisses their dirty cheeks every night after dinner, but she never locks the front door. None of the kids have keys, they all just sort of come home "around" when the street lights come on. And they never close their front blinds.

Zayn's mom has a thing with blinds. The very second she notices the sun going down, Trisha purposefully walks around the house to close them all. She told Zayn people can see in, once it gets dark. "They can see us, but we only see our own reflections in the glass, love. Someone could be out in the bushes right now, peeping in, and we'd never know."

Zayn has thick wooden blinds covering his bedroom windows, and two sets of curtains.

But as he stands in the Klein living room, he eyes the sunroom, the one with Jesse's dad's old file folders and boxes, the one with two identical chaise lounges. It's a small room, connected to the house by double glass doors, totally surrounded in windows. It's where they sleep, where Jesse insists on having Zayn spend the night in the summer, when their lack of central air feels most suffocating. They open the windows and lay across from each other telling jokes until Jesse appears to collapse. He falls asleep like a dog does: fast and easy.

Zayn hates the sunroom. He hates all the windows, the ones not covered in blinds, the ones anyone can see in. Zayn can never sleep when they're in there, drowsy under thin blankets. Even when he’s exhausted and his eyes burn, he imagines eyes outside, creepy old men and serial killer clowns peeping in, watching his every move. Zayn hopes tonight they sleep up in Jesse's room. His bed is sure big enough, and Zayn's been careful not to touch. He'd never touch Jesse, his best friend, who is a normal boy who likes girls.

Just then Jesse bounds back down the stairs, his hands behind his back, his eyes wild. His parents let him grow his hair long, stick straight and the color of wet sand, brown with flecks of blond from the summer sun. He's getting taller, only a little taller than Zayn, his feet growing like weeds. He told Zayn that's a good sign, that his dick will be past his knees by the time they hit high school.

Zayn follows him out to the front porch, down the three concrete steps to the front walkway. The house barely has a yard to speak of, just a few steps from the sidewalk up to the porch and front door. The tree in the yard is too small, the leaves too brittle, so Zayn wonders where the hell these leaves big enough to burn holes into are gonna come from.

But Jesse reveals an old cigar box, the woodsy, smokey scent immersing them both immediately as they crouch over it. Inside is a stack of leaves, from an oak tree or maybe a maple from the park, a lighter, and two cigarettes.

"See, you light one and then you can burn holes," Jesse explains, holding a cigarette to his lips. He inhales like his dad does, and holds the leaf up to it. Zayn watches as Jesse burns a perfectly round circle there in the center, lit up red and orange around the edge. Zayn knows, as he looks through it and sees Jesse’s discerning eye, that it was for Jesse to assess Zayn through. He smirks as he tosses the leaf between their legs, and takes a second drag.

Zayn's not dumb. He always knows when Jesse has a bullshit excuse to do something. They took candy bars from Hy-Vee that summer, Jesse whispering that his dad paid for a few extra the last time, for this purpose. _It's fine, he said so._ He swore his mom wouldn't be mad if they took a twenty from her wallet, instead of quarters, since he did so many chores the weekend before. _It's cool, Zee._ He has excuses for his behavior, reasons for his crimes, and he seems to need them. Zayn lets Jesse have everything, so he pretends not to care, even as he sweated his ass off as they ran back to the house with stuffed pockets those times.

Jesse puffs the cigarette, inhaling and exhaling, the cherry burning bright on the end, and like the times before, Zayn gets it. "Burning holes in leaves" is code for "I want you to try smoking a cigarette, Zayn. Don’t mess it up."

Zayn plays it cool, like always, and reaches for it. He tries to keep his hand from shaking, the cigarette foreign and awkward between his pre-teen fingers. When it touches his lips, it's damp from Jesse's spit. It's right there, the way Jesse must taste. Zayn pretends not to be flustered and overwhelmed by that. He circles his mouth around it, just a little, before bringing it down. It doesn't feel like much.

"Suck it," Jesse nods, eyes wide, excited.

"I did," Zayn frowns.

"You just touched it, you didn't smoke. Try it, really try it."

"How?" Zayn whispers, nervous now. It's just the two of them, zero cars have passed since they came back outside, the block dead silent. The air is still sticky, the July heat hanging onto August for dear life, the humidity making their faces shine.

"Suck it like a straw. Your mouth will feel all full, but pull it into your lungs. Do it slow, breathe it in," Jesse nods again, fingers pushing at Zayn's wrist to keep going.

Zayn tries again, the spit slick cigarette between his lips. He follows instructions well, does as Jesse says, and inhales his first breath of smoke. He does it too fast, way too fast, and ends up coughing so hard he sees stars. He drops the cigarette entirely, his rough palms smacking the still-warm concrete, as he dry heaves between them.

Then he feels dizzy, the nicotine high swirling around behind his eyelids. He has to shift over, to sit on his butt before he can fall like an idiot.

He eventually blinks open his eyes, watering like he's crying, to see Jesse seamlessly and effortlessly smoking the end of the cig. He's done it before, maybe a million times, maybe with the Nielsen brothers directly across the street or Manny Lucero down the block. Zayn doesn’t ask. He doesn’t like to call attention to the things Jesse does when he’s not around, the people he hangs out with, their hoods up, the adult messes they ask for.

Jesse could make fun of him, they both know it. It was Zayn's first time and he failed. He didn't pull it off, the dare Jesse presented to him as a game, as something childish. Zayn waits for it, the smirk or the laugh Jesse can toss his way that makes him embarrassed some days, and then hard other ones, when he has to go home and touch himself under his covers.

"It gets easier," Jesse sniffs, pressing the embered end of it against the sidewalk.

"Yeah," Zayn shrugs, easy as anything, like he's not worried. He's always worried, though. He's also pretty sure he'll never smoke again. He doesn't like the ache it brings to his lungs.

"Did good," Jesse gives him props, Zayn practically preening under his gaze. He lifts a hand lazily, like it's no big deal, and touches his finger to Zayn's bottom lip. It's a quick tap, maybe a reminder to not be so sloppy with his spit next time, Zayn's not sure. But he feels it, sort of wishes it were Jesse's mouth against his lip, maybe his tongue.

Jesse grabs the cigar box and gets up. He whistles for Zayn to follow, so he does. He scurries up after him into the house, cursing under his breath as Jesse kicks the door shut without locking it, and steps towards the sunroom. Defeated, since they’re not going up to Jesse’s bed after all, Zayn sighs. They crawl up onto the lounge chairs, their feet filthy against the fabric, and talk about school. They're assigned to the same home room with Mrs. Neidermier, the science teacher so old they're sure she won't hear them if they talk shit from the back of the classroom.

Jesse promises that either way, they’ll sit at a lab table together, so they can doodle in Zayn’s notebook. They like to do it back and forth, to add their drawings together, to make a scene.

Jesse falls asleep first like always, his left hand up on his face. It's something he's always done, covers his face as he sleeps, like lingering muscle memory of when he used to suck his thumb as a baby. His forefinger and thumb make an L-shape over his eyes, his other fingers curled around his nose, his face hidden from Zayn's view. Zayn only watches him for a few seconds, this older and cooler person curled up like a kid, who chooses to hang out with him. But he can’t stare at Jesse, it’s creepy to do that, so he tries to shut his eyes.

Zayn can never sleep in the sunroom; he can't rid the sensation of people looking through the windows, down on him at that very moment. But he vows to try, exhausted and spent from the day. He can sleep, if he wills it hard enough. So with one last look at his best friend, the stale scent of cigarette smoke stuck to his thin shirt, he pulls the maroon blanket up over his head.

That's the last time he sees Jesse Klein alive.

Hours later, when Zayn discovers his best friend’s body, he screams until his nicotine-laced lungs ache.

 

\---

 _March 19, 2019_  
_7:47 am_

It looks the same, unfortunately. The Klein house, large and assuming, the cracked beige paint peeling from the concrete walls, cheaper looking than some of the nice brick houses along 32nd. The white trim along the windows, the painted white steps, the old flowerpots with dying plants on either stoop.

It’s an old neighborhood Zayn knows well, the side of town the Catholics took as their own fifty years before. The houses are big, a few even look like mansions from the outside. But alongside the shitty residences, the small ones with busted screens and slanting porches, they’re all the same: old with cracking foundations, pretty only to the unknowing eye. These families, the ones who have lived and died in Omaha, with at least a half a dozen kids filling each second floor, know better. These houses are burdens, money sucking tax holes, places with loose floorboards and broken A/Cs. Even the nicest looking houses give off the air of tawdry elegance.

But the house also feels different, this corner house Zayn swore was much larger whenever he looked up at it as a kid. The tree in the yard has grown well past the roof now, climbing towards the sun. There's a small shed built into the hill, half covered on the side, accessible from Arbor Street. A back fence, wood, old, to hide the yard. A white screen door now installed to accompany the old wooden front door. A bench on the porch, instead of the chairs Zayn and Jesse used to kick back on to count the cars at night.

It's the same as it was the last day Zayn saw it: covered in police tape, crawling with men in uniform, a group of bystanders or witnesses needing to be interviewed, a coroner van ready and waiting to take the body away. Overcast. No wind. Officer Starzak, the man only a few years older than Zayn, early 30s, paces up and down the short walkway, hands hooked over his belt.

Once they're out of the car, CJ starts to cross the street, dodging the flow of traffic, to get closer. Zayn waves him off, says he needs a quick cigarette, and doesn't look up at the house again until he can feel the heat of it between his fingers. The attic windows, the three of them side by side, are uncovered, just plain glass like how the Kleins had them. Maybe Jesse's parents liked to see the moon from their bed, maybe they were too lazy or preoccupied with five kids to care.

The house was built in 1915, never had any major additions or problems, and until Jesse, nothing bad had ever been reported inside. Zayn spent his high school years equally afraid and obsessed with the property. He thought he heard ghosts that night, convinced himself the noises he heard weren’t real people, that it was justifiable fear that kept him from leaving the sunroom to investigate. He swore it was ghosts, instead of what really happened, and kids were allowed to be afraid of ghosts. Ghosts are an easy fear.

But no one died in 2420 until Jesse Klein, until August 14th, 2002. Zayn checked. There were no ghosts. The sounds Zayn heard that night in his hazy half-sleep were real and not his imagination. The muffled voices, scuffing of feet, swishing of clothes. The sounds of a teenage boy being murdered mere feet from his best friend.

Zayn takes the last drag of his Camel Silver and savors the smoke, the nicotine he hardly feels after so many years of addiction. But it's almost there, he can taste the high, barely, and crosses the street.

Starzak stands with CJ in the busted yard, their arms crossed, heads nodding. CJ has a pretty good memory, doesn't write it all down like Zayn does. Zayn planned on talking to the roommate, or Starzak, to get a feel of it first. But he just nods to CJ and heads up the stairs, because he has to see. He has to step inside the house that's plagued his nightmares since puberty, the place where he first encountered a pool of dark, sticky blood settled into the old floorboards.

A blond man sits on the front stairs with his head in his hands, in a pair of ratty jeans and a worn-in white tank top. Roommate 1, most likely. Zayn should stop, should offer condolences and then immediately get his statement. He should find out exactly how many roommates there are, who owns the house, start to wrap his head around it. But he has to see.

He feels CJ behind him, close, as he crosses the open threshold. The scene investigators have set up a few yellow stand lights, to illuminate the atrocity before them in the small front room, a hop and a jump from the staircase, a few steps from the living room couch facing the old fireplace. CSU moves in a tight circle, various team members taking pictures, swabbing, collecting, assessing the body of a human woman who now is but a difficult puzzle to solve, a difficult game of “Operation.”

"Destiny May Houthakker," CJ's voice drifts from behind Zayn, quietly. "Age nineteen. Time of death, sometime between four and six a.m. Multiple stab wounds."

CJ was right before: very pretty. Thin, blonde, blue eyes open towards the ceiling, glazed and still. Her hair fans out around her skull, almost too perfectly, like the rays of a sun a child might draw. Skin waxy and not quite hardened, rigor not all the way set in. Wearing small, gray athletic shorts and a white tank top, no bra, barefoot.

A few hours ago, just a few seconds before in the span of a lifetime, she was alive, breathing, warm. And now Destiny is nothing more than a job for them, the swarm of people around her, assessing. CJ clears his throat and nods down to her, to get the attention of everyone in the room. He does that sometimes, tries to remind their team to slow down, that she’s a person. To be respectful.

“Destiny was found by a roommate,” CJ shoves his hands in his pockets, as everyone stills, to look down at her underneath the harsh lights. “She was a nice girl. A real nice girl.”

Shayla McCabe, the young woman from O’Neil in the blue CSU windbreaker, the one Zayn had dinner with once, nods at CJ with a reverent expression. The camera between her gloved hands snaps away again, as they all get back to work.

Zayn tries to be reverent, too. He really tries to be respectful and honorable, to start asking the appropriate questions of the team, to get the ball rolling. He tries to do his job. But he can hardly breathe, the longer he stares down at her. Defensive wounds on her hands, arms crossed over her chest like she's in an old-time Dracula movie, a slice to her left cheek just below her eye. Two stab wounds, one in her lower abdomen where an appendix scar would sit, one to her chest above her right breast.

Destiny May Houthakker, dead and cold, lays in exactly the same position as Jesse Klein once did, seventeen years ago in this exact spot, in almost identical clothing. Identical crime, identical crime scene, in the place Zayn first encountered the feel of sticky, maroon blood. It’s the substance he’s been drowning in pretty much ever since, either in his sleep or while at work. His job is blood now. His livelihood depends on it.

He stepped in it back then, his best friend's blood. He can still sometimes feel the warmth of it between his toes when he's just woken up from a dream.

He feels the wave of nausea, the bile and saliva in his throat alerting him of impending vomit. He takes the few steps back, is out the front door, and to the street before the coffee is up and out. He kneels in the grass along the curb, crunchy and barren after a harsh winter, and tries to breathe. His colleagues, the entire team of people behind him, must look on in wonderment. Zayn's never let a dead body get him sick before.

But they don't know. They don't know about Jesse Klein or Zayn's past here. No one does.

 

\---

 _August 14, 2002_  
_6:44 am_

It happened so fast.

Within the span of three minutes, everything Zayn had ever known was suddenly different. Changed. The red current that was supposed to stay locked up tight beneath Jesse’s skin, the life force that carried oxygen to his brain, the tacky, iron-smelling liquid Zayn never should’ve seen, was there on the floor.

It all came to be after a restless night’s sleep when Zayn woke up needing to pee.

Looking back, he vaguely remembered hearing sounds in the living room that night, while he was asleep. Movement and the swishing of fabric. Like a few puppies play fighting, rustling around on the floor, maybe in a pile of laundry, shuffling and shifting. He remembered blinking a few times, still half asleep, peeking out of the blanket, his eye up near the window ledge, and seeing the man in the front yard. He was in a black sweatshirt and his backpack was broken, one of the straps dragging behind him as he ran away. He remembered thinking it was a dream, that it was stupid, there wasn’t a real man out there to peer through the glass at him. His eyes drooped.

A few hours after that, he remembered waking up having to pee. He remembered looking across to the other lounger in the sunroom, to see it empty. It wasn’t a surprise; Jesse sometimes slept-walked up to his bedroom, forgetting that Zayn was there for sleepovers. Zayn followed him a few times, scared out of his mind to be on the main floor alone, with unlocked doors, wide open windows and glass panes for anyone to look through. He’d crawl in beside Jesse and curl up under his thin comforter, exhausted, finally able to shut his eyes in peace.

Jesse forgot Zayn this time, left him on his own, to go sleep in his bed. Or maybe he went to pee himself, and was on his way back down from the bathroom on the second floor.

Zayn’s bladder didn’t care either way, so he made his way through the double glass doors, quiet as anything, rubbing at his eyes.

His toes felt it first, before he could see or smell it. He stepped right in it, the blood. He remembered later how it was cool against his skin, thicker than the movies made it look, tacky like Elmer’s glue. It looked like something from a busted pipe, everywhere, but not like water. Not thin or gushing, or even moving. It was still.

Jesse was busted. His body was ripped through like it was nothing, like all that made him up was a thin, fatty sausage casing with meat stuffed inside. That’s what Zayn’s mind supplied him with later: we’re all just sausage links, disgusting bratwursts, red and angry meat, muscle and tissue and tendons, our skin a laughably weak shield against an outside force. Against something like a sharp knife.

It took him one full minute to process the blood between his toes, the body of his best friend laid out on the floor, skin almost translucent, his empty, open eyes staring at the ceiling, his arms crossed like a vampire. He looked the same and different, in his soft grey shorts and white tank top. But now it was all red, stained and slashed, splotches of it all across his body. Dead.

_Dead dead dead dead dead dead dead._

Zayn screamed it over and over, sure that the neighbors would hear, his voice carrying up the staircase to Jesse’s siblings’ bedrooms. He prayed his weak and feeble voice, not yet affected by puberty or manhood, would wind its way up the second set of stairs, to the Kleins in their attic master, so far away, not close to their kids, too far too far too far.

He screamed so loudly, slapped his hands over his dirty face so he wouldn’t have to see the scene anymore, curled up in a ball behind the armchair by the fireplace.

_Dead dead dead dead dead dead dead._

When they finally shook at him, grabbed his arms to see what happened, screamed in his face to explain, to wail about their dead son, he couldn’t speak.

Zayn couldn’t move until his dad came and lifted him up. Yaser held Zayn like a baby, Zayn’s entire body monkeyed around his baba’s torso. He moved his head a fraction of an inch, when Yaser asked if he wanted to change before they got into the car. He had a fresh pair of shorts in his fist, since Zayn wet himself the second his best friend’s blood licked its way up his foot.

\---

 

 _March 19, 2019_  
_7:56 am_

CJ's warm hand presses against Zayn's shoulder, as the other hands him a bottle of water. CJ is always warm, everything about him radiates warmth. Zayn is cold, too cold, hard and angular, bad-cop to CJ's good-cop. Zayn tries to wipe his mouth and gain back composure, as a cloud shifts overhead.

Sensing it’s not the time to discuss Zayn getting sick, CJ then hands over his folio and print-outs about Destiny: her driver's license, contact info, and next of kin. He stares at Zayn with concerned eyes, a look that says _you don't have a good feeling about this either, do you._ Zayn shakes his head, rids himself of all thought. It's time to work. It's time to delve into Destiny's life and close friends, the people milling about in the yard, the ones he'll have to call and notify, the man on the porch. Nine times out of ten, in a close, intimate stabbing case like this, inside a home, one of them either did it or knows who did it. It's time for Zayn to do his job.

It's time to pretend like he's never been inside this house.

He quickly and efficiently heads back to the house, eyes averted from the techs and badges around him, as if he's just hung over. He hasn't had a drink since college, but none of them know that either. “Hung over” is Zayn’s go-to excuse for when he looks especially wrung out and dead-in-the-eyes while at work. People understand “hung over.”

Destiny still has a ways to go before she's transported from the scene, so Zayn decides to use the time wisely. Roommate 1 looks up at him from the front steps, curious about the puking detective with the dark hair and skinny tie, his face pale and blank. Zayn tries to warm himself up, tries to put on his face of courage and complacency, something he learned from Jesse. Jesse could make anyone agree, go along with a plan, tell a secret.

"I'm Detective Malik," Zayn holds out his hand, the guy still staring at him in his thin shirt. He's probably freezing in the early March air, but he doesn't rub his arms, doesn't curl his feet up, doesn't move much, probably too numb to notice.

"Niall Horan."

"Mr. Horan," Zayn sits next to him, to level them out. "Can you tell me what happened this morning?"

Roommate 1, Niall Horan, crosses his fingers in his lap, making himself smaller. Zayn knows how to read people. He can pick up on small motions, eye movements, hitches in breath. Whereas most people see the world as a landscape or scene, Zayn sees it like a Pollock painting, a mess of color, a swirl of chaos, that only makes sense up close, full of incremental details. Zayn is good with details. He's good at seeing people like Niall Horan, the close ones with overwhelming grief. Zayn has been Niall Horan, as well. First on the scene. Witness to the deceased.

Niall doesn't speak right away, his bottom lip red and bitten to shreds. Zayn doesn't have any alarms going off, nothing telling him to look harder. He keeps still and waits it out.

"I found her," Niall mumbles eventually, voice hoarse. "I got home from a party this morning, fucking exhausted, just wanting my bed. And she was there right inside the front door. I - I was the one to call 9-1-1."

Zayn nods. He figured as much. He looked a lot like Niall Horan the day he found Jesse, body so small and tight like he'd been trapped in an old magician's box without oxygen.

"I know you may have told this to the officers who arrived first," Zayn says quietly. "And I know it's hard to keep saying the same thing over and over. But it really helps me, so thank you."

"Yeah," Niall looks to his lap.

"I have to ask if you touched or moved Destiny today, Niall."

"No."

"You didn't check her pulse, or feel her wrist? Didn't get close?"

Sometimes people forget those first few minutes, the decisions they make before they wonder why. Cop shows and crime novels have taught us to keep our distance from dead bodies, the very air around them precious to crime scene investigators. We've been conditioned to back away, to call for help, to close our eyes so we don't disturb evidence. It’s how most people think they’d react, when in the unfortunate position Niall’s found himself in. People like to think they’d be smart about it.

But we're human beings, and more often than not, those closest to the victims need to feel like they've done something to help. They forget the crime shows and run to check wrists and necks, they shake their loved ones, kneel in blood, move clothing, to try. Even when it's too late.

Zayn stares at Niall harder, leans in to get his point across. He can be delicate, there's a time for delicacy, but now's the time to get it out before Niall loses the details. He needs to know if Niall left parts of himself behind, skin cells or fingerprints, disturbances in her placement that will need to be explained later.

"No, I didn't touch her," Niall’s voice wavers, his eyes wet. "She... I knew she was dead already. I could tell. I didn't -- I couldn't touch her, I don't -- I don't want to know what a dead person feels like."

_They’re heavy. They feel like a bag of wet sand, without the coarseness._

Zayn doesn't say that out loud. He instead starts to take notes, a page dedicated to Roommate 1, Niall Horan.

"Can you walk me through some things? Can you tell me about this morning?"

Zayn jots notes and listens intently to Niall's alibi, the alibi he's asking for without really asking. Niall nods, must understand, because he does Zayn one better and starts from the night before.

Niall Horan, age 25 from Omaha, one of the renters, got home from his coaching job on March 18th at around 9:30. He took a shower, quickly changed, and drove to his girlfriend's house on 42nd and Farnam. He saw Destiny on his way out the door at around 10:15. He whispers that he gave her a quick kiss on the cheek. His girlfriend and her roommates had a low-key party, with at least a dozen people, who will definitively say that Niall Horan was not in the residence at the time of the murder. When he walked in the unlocked front door at approximately 6:26, he discovered the body.

Niall palms at his cheeks, a gesture Zayn would peg as nervous, if not for the look on his face. It's not an expression of guilt, or even confusion. It's one of grief. Helplessness. It’s one of quiet amazement at being a person who can now say they've been in this position, their eyes the first to see the pool of blood from a friend. He's officially a cog in the opening scene of a "Law & Order" episode, the bit actor paid a few hundred dollars to discover a dead body. It's his life now. Zayn grips the paper with Destiny's driver's license, her smiling face staring back at him. Niall looks away from it, and Zayn knows without even having to check the alibi. Roommate 1 did not kill Destiny Houthakker

"Did Destiny say anything when you said goodbye last night? Anything different in her mood? Anything like that?" Zayn clicks his pen.

"She seemed the same. Sweet as ever, you know? People gave her shit, or like, looked down on her, because of her job. But that wasn't fair. She was a good person," Niall nods, face serious at using the past tense to describe Destiny.

"And what was her job?"

"Stripper,” he sniffs. “At the Spearmint Rhino."

Zayn purses his lips at that, agitated and relieved all at once. At first glance, a pretty white girl from a small town up north gets stabbed in South O, and it's news. It could very well be picked up nationally, "Who Killed Our Destiny?" headlines, with Nancy Grace and Jane Velez-Mitchell chiming in about the murder of a young woman in an already-crime-ridden city. Zayn may have had his face plastered across the country, the lead investigator set to find the vicious killer of such a sweet Midwestern girl.

But that won't happen, not now. No one cares much about a dead whore. That's what they'd paint her as. Pretty white girls who get stabbed are either virgins or whores, and now that Destiny (“ _of course_ her name was Destiny” they’d say) is a dead stripper, Zayn is on his own. If he doesn't push and claw for evidence, it will all disappear, departments will get busy with other cases, his bosses will focus on the next gang murders instead. Zayn knows, suddenly and irrevocably, that if he doesn't do his job right, and quickly, Destiny Houthakker’s memory will cease to exist.

He can't help but feel the relief though, at not having anyone breathing down his neck. It's even more of a relief that not many people will clue into the case, since he'd rather no one read up on the house and discover its past, Zayn's past, and connect the two cases together. Whatever the link between Jesse Klein and Destiny Houthakker, he'd rather it be kept close to his chest.

Zayn clicks his pen again. _Stripper_ , he writes in a margin, along with _Spearmint Rhino._ It's one of the bigger strip clubs in the city, near the airport, not known for its cleanliness. Girls like Destiny from small towns, set on moving to the city to find themselves, end up at places like the Spearmint Rhino, sadly.

"Did she ever complain about customers? Any men ever come around here? A boyfriend?"

"None that I ever saw. She kept it all pretty separate, I guess."

"Were you close?"

Niall shakes his head in anguish.

"We all just rent rooms, you know? It's like... we're roommates, but not. We're more like neighbors, you know? We just share a kitchen and bathroom is all. I just... she was always really nice. I didn't... I don't know much about her."

Zayn knows he has what he needs from Niall, that this is about all he'll be able to give. Zayn needs to keep going, to interview the rest of the renters. Zayn knows this house like the back of his hand, knows which stairs creak, which closets make the best hiding places, the hidden compartment next to the fridge where Marcy Klein kept the mop bucket and Pine-Sol. He knows it has four main bedrooms on the second floor, and a master bedroom in the redone attic. That leaves three more people to look into.

Niall nods to Zayn's folio, to the notes he's taken, the scribbles about _roommates, rooms, renters._

"Dennis in the attic, he's been out of town for two weeks. Visiting his dad. And Ellen Marco, she rents the room right next to mine, she's never here on Tuesday and Wednesday nights."

Zayn nods, hurries to get it down.

"So just you, Destiny, and one other person to account for? Were they home with Destiny last night?"

Niall nods, his face serious. He glances over to the few people in the yard, the neighbors and passerbys hidden from view by the investigators and cops near the police tape. Zayn forgot how busy 32nd could be in the mornings, up the street from a Catholic grade school, close to the overpass leading to I-80. It's an area of busybody moms, carpools and kids walking to school, the small printing company just across Arbor Street opening its doors for the day.

Just then, some of the people in the crowd shift. A shorter man with brown hair and sharp teeth steps to the side, as Zayn's eye catches another man behind him. Tall, long hair, eyes scrunched up from either the shifting clouds or grief or pure fascination at Zayn and Niall sitting on the steps.

"Harry Styles. Harry was here last night," Niall says, turning to face Zayn. "You should talk to Harry."

They lock eyes and Zayn knows. He looks back over to the man staring at him, the one Niall can't take his eyes off either, and clicks his pen.

This kid more like, the one with the tattoos and nervous hands, scratching his biceps, shifting nervously, is someone to look at, the only person at home when Destiny was killed.

Harry Styles doesn't look like a sociopath or a killer, so he probably is one.

 

\---

 _March 19, 2019_  
_8:04 am_

Zayn pulls CJ to the side of the porch, away from Niall, their heads close. He instructs him to clear the scene, to help the badges move the neighbors and strangers away from the yard. Harry Styles should be brought onto the porch, once Niall has been cleared to leave. Zayn gives CJ a look, one that says the two renters should not cross paths, or be left alone to talk. No one talks to Harry Styles until Zayn does.

When he steps back into the house, he averts his eyes from Destiny, for now. She's still a person, someone he's been assigned to bring justice to, but he needs to be clinical about it first. He needs to pick up the details, the small kinks in the chain, to be able to do right by her. He needs to assess her, her life, her surroundings.

It's like he's been transported back in time as he climbs the stairs, pulling on a pair of gloves. The wood is the same, the stairs make all the same sounds. The only difference is the lack of pictures lining the stairwell, the black and white 5x10s that featured the five Klein children.

Mike and Marcy were young parents, inexperienced and often overwhelmed. They forgot to lock doors, they never signed a school form on time, and their kids singlehandedly kept up the lice population throughout the greater Omaha metro at any given time. They were hurried, rushing a kid to practice or a doctor's appointment, without remembering to bring the others, who were then left to their own devices, running around the neighborhood like it was 1958.

Often times, Marcy got caught up at the small paper company she and her husband bought out from her dad. They worked hard to keep that business afloat, to make her parents proud. Sometimes they didn’t have the time needed to take care of five babies. So Jesse made dinner for his siblings some nights. Zayn thinks about Jesse’s "gumbo" as he climbs the last few steps, the pot of ground beef, noodles, and ketchup that could feed the Kleins, and Zayn, for days on end. He can't help but smile at the memory. That gumbo, like so many of Zayn’s experiences with the Kleins, had a duality to it: the slop was both revolting and fucking delicious all at once.

But Mike and Marcy loved their kids fiercely. Marcy had a massive camera, some big expensive one not unlike what Shayla downstairs uses to capture the minute details of Destiny's hardening body. Marcy brought it everywhere, tucked it inside the 10-passenger family van the Kleins rolled around in, took pictures of her kids constantly. She had photos all over the house, nice looking ones in black frames.

The walls in this house are empty now, Zayn notes. This is no longer a family residence, a place full of children's laughter and sticky hand prints near the kitchen phone. It's bare, a place early-twenty-somethings rent when they move away from their parents in West O and the surrounding towns made up of pure suburb.

Thankfully, Destiny didn't rent Jesse's old room. Zayn isn't sure he can face Jesse's bedroom, to see if the cracks in the ceiling were still there, the ones they stared at when they dreamed about being in the Army someday. As he steps fully to the second floor, he realizes the only open door is to his right, Cassie's old room. One of the techs has already made his way around the room, snapping pictures of anything deemed relevant, giving Zayn a quick nod as they pass.

The first thing Zayn takes note of, his pen clicking in his hand a little too quickly, is the tone of the room itself. Young. Childish. Adolescent. Thin, frilly pink curtains over the windows. A worn in light pink bedspread, bed unmade, sheets a mess. Slept in. Makeup and perfume on an old wide dresser, something from a yard sale or Goodwill, most likely. Magazines, used tissues, a laptop, some chocolate on the nightstand. A vase with days-old pink roses, their petals wilting slightly. If Zayn didn't know any better, this was still Cassie's room, the room of a pre-teen girl trying to memorize Cosmo tips, practicing with lipstick to try and keep it off her teeth.

CJ comes in about then, as Zayn carefully side-steps around the piles of clothes on the wood floor. Not much furniture besides the bed and dresser, just the nightstand and one chair in the corner, a few boxes not unpacked after a move.

"Young," CJ frowns, eyes bouncing around the drafty room.

"Very," Zayn nods back, agreeing.

"She's from Valentine," CJ pulls on gloves of his own. "I called her parents from the car, in case any of the news stations show up. Her mom and step-dad. Mom cried a bit."

"Just a bit?"

"She said they haven't spoken in awhile. Should be in town by tomorrow."

Zayn picks up a notebook from the floor, praying for a journal or address book. He flips a few pages to find it completely blank, so he tosses it back to the floor. So Destiny left home and hasn't spoken to her parents recently. Only nineteen, alone in Omaha, renting a random room in a house full of strangers.

He clicks his pen to make a note. _Alone. Lonely. Childish. Easily manipulated, trusting, sweet?_

"Roommate 1 says she was nice. A good person who kept her work separate from home," Zayn mutters to himself. He uses his pen to shift a curtain, looks out the window towards the backyard. The shitty swing set is gone, the plastic playhouse he had his first kiss in long gone as well. "Now that I've done my own sweep, let's have CSU take her phone and laptop in, see if she's been talking to anyone."

"Done. The other roommate is on the porch for you, when you're ready."

"I want to go to the strip club today," Zayn makes his way back to the door, eyes on the warped wood beneath his feet so he won't be tempted to look at Jesse's door.

He only looks up to see how the bedroom doors have changed, no longer wide open and bursting with childhood mementos and toys, but locked tight. They each have new door handles, silver ones that don't match the original wood, that open with individual keys.

Jesse had a lock on his door from the inside, something he rigged together that summer. Zayn knew Jesse had a hard time with privacy, in the Klein house. He had his own wooden chest at the end of his bed; his dad got him a padlock for it and everything, to store all of his precious goods. His siblings were nosy, always in his room poking around because they thought everything he had should be theirs too. So Jesse put a slide lock on the inside of the door. Zayn biked with him to the hardware store just up on Center and then watched as Jesse screwed it into the wood, tears in his eyes, after Mikey tore through his room that morning and ripped up his favorite poster. Jesse was a good older brother, the best, but even he had his limits. Zayn loved the Klein house for its noise and chaotic energy, whereas Jesse couldn't wait to get away from it, into his quiet oasis.

The door stares at him, but he doesn't want CJ to see him get upset.

Zayn shakes his head and stomps back down the stairs.

\---

 

 _August 14, 2002_  
_7:29 am_

Zayn’s first time in a police station is a blur.

His baba holds his hand so firmly as they wait in an interrogation room, the tips of his fingers have started to turn red. Angry red. Blood red, the blood pumping in vain to his tiny extremities, the circulation getting cut off. He has to shake his hand away, frantically, his first panic attack washing over him before he ever even knew what one was.

His mom tries to hold him close soon after, to calm him down against her chest, but then he envisions his blood supply getting cut off from his lungs, or maybe even his brain if she holds him by the neck tight enough. He could choke, someone could choke him on accident. Zayn’s mom always holds too tight, even when he was a baby and her own mother told her she swaddled him too tightly in a blanket.

Zayn pushes at both of them, afraid of what their hands could do if they squeeze him too much. He doesn’t want his blood to stop running the right way, the way it’s supposed to. What if one of them scratch him on accident and it starts to flow out, down his arm, onto the linoleum floor?

What if someone steps in it?

The detectives try to get him to talk that morning, but his mom insists he needs a little more time. He sits in the corner, on the floor in a little ball like he did in the Klein living room, and holds his hands over his eyes.

\---

 

 _March 19, 2019_  
_8:20 am_

Roommate 2, Harry Styles, sits on the bench on the front porch. Zayn wants to survey him a bit before stepping out there himself, so he purposefully peers at him through the front window.

Zayn will run his name soon enough, to get his background. But he wants to hear from him first, this tall young man with disgusting hair and ringed fingers. He’s a musician or bartender, Zayn’s sure of it. He even nods to himself. He’s good at seeing career choices, or lack thereof, in the people he questions. Most likely, Roommate 2 is well known on some Omaha circuit, either for his music, or bar skills, or cock. He seems the type, to be known for his dick. Maybe he’s been sleeping with Destiny. Maybe he’s the jealous type, or the complacent type to get depressed when dumped. Maybe he dumped Destiny and she was heartbroken.

 _Maybe Destiny was pregnant._ Zayn frowns. It’s a terrible thought to have, hoping for a dead girl to now be a dead girl with child. But it would be convenient, to have a fetus to test. Whoever knocked her up would be lead suspect number one in her death.

Zayn clicks his pen, itching to make notes, but decides he’s getting entirely too ahead of himself. He’s being unfair. He needs to shake Harry Styles’ hand before he decides if he’s guilty.

Someone taps Zayn’s shoulder, to get his attention. He turns and stares down at Destiny’s body, now more firm and rigored. They’ll need to put her in a body bag soon.

“The blood is contained,” Dalton nods to Zayn. “No major splatter on any surface or wall.”

“So how do we think it happened?” Zayn hears himself ask, even though he already knows the answer.

“No signs of forced entry. The door was either unlocked and someone came in, or she opened it for someone she knew.”

_Or it was her roommate from just upstairs, the man sitting on the porch. Maybe he made it look like someone from outside did it._

Zayn’s head starts to ache, already trying to piece together how this is happening, how someone knows about Jesse and is now recreating it. And why.

CJ sidles up to Zayn’s right, nodding along. He removes his gloves with two sharp snaps, and Zayn almost tells him off for it. The sound hurts his ears for some reason, the harshness of it, the lights too bright around them. All of his senses feel like they’re in overdrive, like the first time he stepped foot in Times Square. Sensory overload. But he needs to follow along, he needs to keep this all in his head.

“The marks on her hand and cheek indicate a struggle. She tried to fight him off. But the wounds to her chest and abdomen were deep. She bled out.”

One of the girls on the floor inspecting the underside of Destiny’s head can’t help but click her tongue at that. The coroner, Dr. Knight pushes his glasses up his nose and chimes in.

“Two knife wounds in two very painful spots,” he sighs sadly, closing a file folder. “Destiny bled out slowly. I’ll do a full report after the autopsy, maybe she was struck over the head, but the blood doesn’t indicate that… I’ll see if she had drugs in her system, anything out of the ordinary and let you know. But cause of death seems to be from a clean stabbing. A slow one, right here on the floor.”

“An agonizing death,” Zayn mutters under his breath. That’s what they said about Jesse, too. The trial lawyers made sure to emphasize that: it was slow and painful, his lung pierced straight through, his lower intestine torn into pieces. It was a cruel death. Agonizingly slow. Both of their bodies gave out the same way: gradually, in a trickle, surrounded by their own blood.

They both died here, gasping for air, crying, probably begging God to make it stop. Zayn wonders that sometimes, what Jesse thought about as death overtook him and became imminent. He wonders if he tried to call out Zayn’s name, just a few feet away, as the man who murdered him stood over him, waiting for his last breath.

Zayn didn’t know Destiny, but now he’ll have her to wonder about, too. Maybe she prayed. Or called out for her mom, as her own killer watched her drown in her own blood.

He realizes he’s been standing still for too long, that the eyes around the room have all landed on him. He blinks and tries to focus.

“What?”

“I just said we’re about to move her,” Knight pats his arm, worried. “Unless you wanted us to keep her here for a few minutes longer.”

Zayn sniffs and gestures towards Roommate 2 on the porch, readying himself.

“Yeah, give me a few. I want to see how he reacts as you wheel her out,” Zayn says on an exhale.

“And us?” Dalton questions, nodding to his team.

“We’ve documented the scene and bedroom, right? Everything?”

“Yes,” Shayla nods, holding up her camera.

“Good,” Zayn unzips his folio, finally ready for Harry. “Bag up the sheets on the bed. Looks slept in. Maybe someone was over with her last night. Swab her room, see if we get any fluids.”

The look he gives Dr. Knight doesn’t go unnoticed, the one that says they’ll need an extensive rape kit and pelvic exam. That’s the one difference between Jesse and Destiny, besides their age. Destiny is a woman. And she’ll need to be investigated as such.

“Good call,” CJ adds, pointing to Dalton. “Show him, D.”

And then there it is, the other glaring difference between the bodies of Jesse Klein and Destiny Houthakker, since Jesse was a child and didn’t have anything on him when he died. Dalton holds up a clear evidence bag. Inside is an unopened condom.

“It was in her back pocket,” he shakes it slightly. “Maybe she was going to meet someone?”

Zayn makes a quick note of it. _Boyfriend. Male. Meeting up? Letting him in? Barefoot, shoes kicked off near the door, wasn’t going far._

When Zayn looks towards the front window, to glance at Harry Styles’ wide shoulders through the glass, he instead finds Harry staring back at him. He’s fully turned around on the bench now, fingers digging into the wood of it, eyes wide as he realizes he can see the whole scene from this vantage point.

CJ shifts slightly, purposefully, so that Destiny’s body is in full view of the window. Harry doesn’t even blink, as his eyes bounce from Destiny to Zayn, over and over. Zayn clicks his pen and pats CJ’s arm. He thinks CJ deserves a raise for that alone.

 

\---

 _March 19, 2019_  
_8:22 am_

Harry Styles could crack a walnut with his thighs, Zayn decides as he sits next to him on the porch. He’s the deceptively strong type, muscular in all the right places, broad but still thin. He surveys Zayn right back, his eyes still so wide and pleading. He’s sad, Zayn can tell, but nervous. Maybe he’s already figured out how fucked he is.

“I’m Detective Malik,” Zayn holds out his hand, ready to assess a handshake. He can’t let his earlier freak out panic attack get in the way of this. He has to focus. He has to shake Harry’s hand.

“Harry,” he says quietly, and then to clarify, “Styles.”

Zayn grips Harry’s hand. Strong, but not too strong. No limp wrist. Firm, clammy palm. Zayn wants to make a note of it, the way it makes him feel on guard and yet open to the conversation. Zayn can gauge a lot from a simple handshake, and he can tell that Harry can make or break this right now. What he can’t tell is if Harry really did it, if he killed the sweet girl on the other side of the door, if he knows about Jesse. _If he knows about me._

There’s no way this is all a coincidence and if Zayn thought about it harder at the present moment, there’s a fair chance he’d be curled up in a ball in their car across the street. So he can’t think about that just yet, and instead needs to figure Harry Styles out.

"Mr. Styles," Zayn clicks his pen menacingly, ready for his notes. "Can you tell me what happened this morning?"

Zayn knows Harry didn’t discover Destiny. He knows how Harry should answer this, as someone who was in the house at the time of the murder. Now it’s all up to Harry, to either dig his own grave, or get himself out of one. Zayn nods, to tell him to get a move on. Harry bites his lip, the tremble of it probably visible from space.

“You already talked to Niall, yeah? So like… she was stabbed inside.”

Zayn blinks at him.

“I was in my room,” Harry wipes at his mouth. “I was in my room all night.”

“All night?”

“I had a gig downtown last night, at Mr. Toad’s,” Harry nods. “I got home at like midnight. And then I went into my room, locked the door, and fell asleep.”

 _So a musician,_ Zayn almost chuckles to himself, even though it’d be highly inappropriate. He makes a note though, so Harry can see. He’ll have to check that fact, to ask around.

“Mr. Toad’s.”

“Uh, yeah right by Barry O’s?”

“I know where it is.”

“Right.”

Zayn narrows his eyes and cocks his head. He wants Harry to know he’s assessing him. He needs to make him nervous, before he can lawyer up and ask to do this at the station. If Harry was smart at all, he already would have.

“And then you came home,” Zayn jots it down. _Midnight._ Roommate 2 was in the house as of midnight, after Roommate 1 had already left. When he arrived home, he was officially the last person to be near Destiny before her death, aside from the killer.

“Yes.”

“Alone.”

“Yes.”

“And then you went to sleep,” Zayn looks up at him, eyes inquiring.

“I was tired.”

“Okay, let’s back up,” Zayn turns his body to face Harry more.

It tends to go either one of two ways. Zayn’s movement to shift and get closer can put people at ease, his own brand of Zayn Malik body language, with his pretty face and eyes doing all the work for him. Or, for other people, to the guilty ones, the ones who know something they haven’t yet divulged, it’s an act of aggression. It’s in-your-face Zayn Malik, with his sturdy jaw and angry eyes doing a cop’s work.

Surprisingly, Harry nods and responds to it. He turns towards Zayn, his hands in his lap, ready. He wants to get to the bottom of it, too. Zayn has to take a beat, thrown off. _So you think I’m pretty._ Odd.

“When you came home at midnight, did you see Destiny?”

“She was in her room, I could tell. She must not have had a shift. The lights were on.”

“But you didn’t speak?”

“No, I went straight to my room.”

“Did you hear her? Did you hear anything at all?”

“No,” Harry frowns, eyes drifting up and over Zayn’s shoulder, like he’s trying to remember. “I had a record playing for a while, before I fell asleep, which helps drown out the other boarders.”

“Are your neighbors particularly loud? Was Destiny?”

Harry’s cheeks flame red at that and he looks down at his fingernails. Zayn doesn’t let it go, and instead leans in further. He’s hit a nerve.

“Was Destiny a loud person?”

“No,” Harry looks up and away, nervous.

Zayn doesn’t know what to do with it just yet, so he jots it down. _Loud?_

“So you were asleep all night.”

“Yes.”

“And you didn’t hear a thing.”

“No.”

Zayn doesn’t believe him, because he’s been Harry, just like he’s been Niall. He was right there when Jesse was murdered, so fucking close. He heard sounds all right. He heard the fight, the movements Jesse made that got his hands all cut up, as he tried to fight back. He heard the slash of the knife through the air. Harry doesn’t look innocent here. Zayn moves closer.

“Harry, you can tell me,” he tries to sound complacent. “I just want to make sure Destiny gets justice. You know that, right?”

“Yeah,” Harry nods, his breath on Zayn’s jaw. “I just… I didn’t hear anything, I swear.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

Zayn changes his tactic slightly, clicking his pen and placing it on the paper. It’s more casual that way.

“Did Destiny have a boyfriend? Anyone she may have been talking to? Anyone from work?”

“I don’t know,” Harry shrugs, at a loss. “She didn’t tell me much. She never said.”

Zayn eyes him, unblinking. Niall also said that Destiny didn’t divulge many details, at least when it came to her job. Harry’s just basically reiterated the same story from Niall, who Zayn believes to be completely innocent and removed from the situation. But something about Harry doesn’t feel right. Zayn feels an itch beneath his skin, that tells him to scratch at Harry’s, to dig his claws in, to latch to Harry Styles like a leech.

Just then, Zayn hears the telltale sound of stretcher wheels bouncing up over a weather strip. A tech backs out of the door first, as both Zayn and Harry turn to watch. They wheel the black body bag out and lift it down the stairs, to take Destiny away. She's officially cleared for transport, no longer a resident of the Klein household. She's now just a corpse wrapped in plastic. Zayn shakes his head. He never saw them take Jesse away.

When they finally turn back to one another, Zayn ready to continue his questioning, Harry blinks at him and then shatters into pieces.

“I didn’t do it,” he rushes out, bringing his palms to his wet eyes, pressing down. “I knew it the second I walked down the stairs, when I saw her and Niall yelling on the phone to the cops. I knew. I knew you’d think I did something, because I was the only one home, but I didn’t. I didn’t do anything. I didn’t. It wasn’t me.”

Zayn leans back then, thrown off yet again. Harry Styles is good, he’ll give him that. He really does seem upset. But Zayn was guilty that night in 2002, and Harry is guilty now. Either Harry did it, or he knows who did it, or at the very least, he’s just like Zayn: he heard something go bump in the night and didn’t call for help. Guilty by association. They could never charge Zayn with his crime, but it’s something he should’ve been punished for. He’s spent the rest of his life punishing himself, he supposes.

But Zayn decides to ask the question anyways, the one he never needed to ask Niall Horan, the one that will tell Zayn everything he needs to know. Even as Harry cries with the admission, Zayn needs to explicitly ask it.

“Harry, did you hurt Destiny?”

Zayn is met with Harry’s wide, green eyes, as he takes his hands away from his face. He sniffs and pleads with everything he has, his body practically radiating with ache. He radiates with something else, Zayn can see it.

“No,” he shakes his head, eyes innocent, finally crying.

And then Zayn knows for sure, as they stare at each other. Zayn sees him and knows.

Harry Styles is a liar.

\---

 

 _March 19, 2019_  
_5:58 pm_

The station’s harsh halogen lights force Zayn to hunch over his desk some days. That’s what he tells himself, when his entire body curls up and he wants to lay his head down on the wood near his computer. It’s the light bulbs, they’re too harsh for his eyes, he’s fine. But it’s more than that, like most things in Zayn’s life, further under the surface. He hasn’t slept more than four hours at a time since he was thirteen. His body must know, must shut down like some sort of android robot in a science fiction movie; even when he can’t sleep, his skeletal frame and major muscle groups take a breather to find some form of relief from the incessant waking hours. He hunches, curls, relaxes, when he physically can’t take it anymore.

It just tends to happen at the worst moments, like when he’s supposed to be filling out reports or listen to CJ talk about his weekend plans.

CJ nudges at Zayn’s shin, as his head lulls, his chin bumping against his chest. He’s not asleep, he’s never asleep in these moments, but he jerks from the movement. He has to blink to refocus his eyes on the file folder on his L desk in the corner of the large, open bullpen. It’s the hazard of having his desk at official headquarters, instead of at one of the smaller precincts throughout the city. There’s always someone near him, a lieutenant peeking from an office, a sergeant with a clipboard to see if he’s turned in his files, young hot shot "leaders" set to prove something since so many of the older detectives have retired in the last five years.

Thankfully CJ sleeps a solid eight hours every night, and can keep Zayn from falling too far forward.

Zayn has to get his notes out and into some sort of order, before he can think further about the situation before him. He has to get it into a file, the observations of his, the crime report, the statements, and official alibis of those involved.

CJ’s printed some of the crime photos for him, so he has those to look at as well, when he can take the time to breathe and assess better. He’ll have to pull Jesse’s file, wherever it is, to compare the two scenes. That will have to be done at home, for now, until he’s ready to tell CJ or anyone else what it all means.

He also realizes, as he rubs at his poor, tired eyes, that he’ll have to talk to Harry Styles again. Soon. He’s not satisfied with their conversation. Something tells him to dig deeper, to figure out what Harry is lying about.

Their trip to the Spearmint Rhino opened up more questions than answers, unfortunately. After Zayn told Harry to stay somewhere besides the house, without leaving the city, he grabbed CJ. They made the drive towards East Omaha, down Cumming to get to the airport. Most cities only have hotels and restaurants near their airports, but only the seediest and most blatant keep their biggest and brightest strip clubs along the way.

Destiny had been working at the club for only five months before her death. She was relatively new to the city, so said her manager. Mr. Dorofei Kozel showed Zayn and CJ around, with zero shame as to the condition of the place. It seemed the club had nothing to prove, nothing to lose, since they followed city laws and paid their taxes. It wasn’t clean, but it wasn’t the worst place Zayn’s ever seen while investigating a case. Dark, too dark, red velvet curtains lining the walls, women with fake tits at every turn.

The girls on various poles only gave them passing glances, assessing eyes to see if the two young men would be sticking around to pay them, which of the two they could pluck to the side for a private show. They’d go for CJ, of course, not that CJ knew that. He wandered around with wide eyes and blushing cheeks, the picture of innocence, a man who had never stepped foot in a place like it before. They would’ve eaten him alive, Zayn knew. They’d have his wallet out and on the cocktail table before he even ordered his first drink. These girls, so good at the game, serpents who needed cash to survive, the smart ones. Some of the smartest women Zayn’s ever met were strippers.

Zayn made a note at that point, to remind himself. _Was Destiny good at the game?_

Kozel said Destiny wasn’t on the night before. It’d been a day since she last worked, a double shift. She was still new so she had to take afternoon shifts if she wanted good nights, the sort of shifts the veterans would scoff at. Only one kind of man goes to a strip club when the sun is up, and the smart girls don’t fuck with them. They could afford not to. Destiny didn’t have that luxury. She needed the money, but she needed to earn her stripes even more so.

Kozel hadn’t seen anyone in particular around her, no vultures circling a young, pretty blonde new to the city. But Zayn didn’t much care for what Kozel did or did not see, because he was an unreliable source. Managers and owners always are. So he found a few girls who knew Destiny well, other afternoon shift girls, with smeared mascara and acrylic nails a few days past their fill point.

“She was real sweet,” Monica cried into a tissue handed over by CJ. “She was so nice.”

She was older than Destiny, but not by much, and just the right side of pretty. Her boyfriend probably tells her so every night he comes in to get dances. Zayn hopes he does.

“Some girls aren’t nice,” Rayna agreed. “Some girls come in here and just focus on their work. They have bills and kids and school. They have other shit outside of here, like me, I’m going to be a dental assistant.”

Zayn nodded and clicked his pen.

“But Destiny was nice. So nice. She asked about me, and wished me well every night before she left. People don’t do that now, you know?” Rayna cried then as well, another tissue handed over by CJ, his eyes sad.

Rayna, a little older and wiser, had that mother hen edge to her, a girl who takes care of other girls. She’s the type to appreciate that trait in others. So Zayn made a note. _Destiny: young but thoughtful. Takes care of people. Who was she taking care of after work?_

“Did anyone pay close attention to Destiny? Did she have any regulars?” Zayn pressed forward.

“I didn’t see,” Monica sniffed, eyes screwed up. “I’m not sure.”

“There was a guy who sometimes came in, on Wednesdays and Thursdays,” Rayna gripped for Zayn’s arm, fingers tight. “You should find him.”

“Do you know his name? What did he look like?”

“You should find that guy,” Rayna ramped up, sitting up straighter, on a roll now that she’s made herself useful. “He was creepy, always wanted her, just her. Find him, find that guy. I bet he did it.”

She became slightly hysterical after that, so sure that she knew the man who murdered Destiny Houthakker. Zayn tried to see through it, to see if she only remembered a detail she wanted to remember, to find a face in a sea of horny men, to pin it on someone. People like to think they can find control in the situation, imagine that they can find a truth within the chaos. It only sometimes paid off. People see what they want to see.

But Rayna was so sure, Zayn could tell. She had a burst of knowledge, a tucked-away bit of information she never thought she’d need. A man, white, not too old, but not young. Cute, but not too cute, always wore a hat over his eyes, black clothing. He was someone she’d recognize if she saw him again, but completely void of actual facial characteristics. He was a stranger. A phantom.

As Zayn flips through the crime scene photos at his desk, taking a break from filling out the mound of paperwork before him, he tries to picture Rayna’s stranger. He tries to see him right inside the Klein front door, hovering over Destiny’s bleeding body. Did he enjoy it? Was it a mistake? Did he watch from somewhere close by, to see when Zayn would show up? Is he Harry Styles?

Zayn can’t go there, not now. He shakes his head. This isn’t about him yet, or his connection. It’s about getting the facts down first. It’s about getting it all out quickly, before he loses the details. The local news stations have picked up the story, but have only said an unnamed female died in a residence that morning. He needs to start getting the case together and solved before anyone can delve into the story deeper. He needs to show Harry Styles’ face to Rayna and the other dancers at the club, to see if he’s ever gone in there.

He needs to finish his fucking paperwork.

\---

 

 _August 14, 2002_  
_8:11 am_

The fear subsided soon after the panic attack, luckily. The adrenaline coursing through him immediately after finding Jesse’s body, the chemicals bashing against his brain in the few hours afterward eventually dissipated. He feels the crash as he leans against his dad’s shoulder in the interrogation room.

He had to tell them about the night before, when Jesse showed him how to smoke a cigarette. He hated to do it, to sell Jesse out and make him look like a bad kid, but they asked. Zayn’s good at telling the truth when he’s asked straight and clear questions.

They went to sleep in the sunroom. Jesse first, then Zayn, like always. He heard the ghosts in the middle of the night, in the halfway-sleep he’s come to expect from the Klein house. He admits his fear of the windows and feels the shame spread through across his face. It’s dumb to be afraid of people watching you.

After the initial round of questions with the older detectives, a nice woman comes in and asks him some different questions. She speaks slowly, in a quiet voice. He likes it. He’s so tired. She has him close his eyes, to picture himself back on the lounger. He tells her that he’s there. He can feel the blanket. He says it smells like laundry detergent. She seems happy to hear it.

The sounds right outside the glass doors, the puppies playing on the floor, the ghosts whispering, the dream he had about the man in the yard, his broken backpack. He tells her all of it. She seems so happy, she says he’s doing so well. She has a nice soothing voice, and Zayn can’t help himself. His head starts to fall forward, his chin towards his chest, spent.

Yaser carries him to the car afterwards, like he did when Zayn was a toddler. Zayn can hear his mom crying as she rushes behind them through the parking lot. Zayn wraps his body around his father and closes his eyes, even though he’s not asleep.

\---

 

 _March 19, 2019_  
_10:17 pm_

Zayn hasn’t stared at Jesse’s face in a long time. He doesn’t have any pictures of him and he definitely hasn’t looked at his file since he became a detective. But there he is, laid out in a photograph right next to Destiny. Their eyes are different colors, Jesse’s a warm brown, Destiny’s a light blue. All four irises are empty, dead, lifeless. Identical cuts on their left cheeks.

Zayn brought home both cases for the night, to sift through and make sense of. And it’s even more obvious how similar the two are. The two of them could be brother and sister, with their light hair and tanned skin. Jesse used to bask in the sun every summer; Destiny got a free tanning membership at a place near the club.

The heat in Zayn’s apartment is shitty even on a good day, so he pulls a sweatshirt on as he sits back on his couch. He’s alone now, finally, after a long and rigorous day. He stills feels uneven, like his equilibrium is off, the spinal fluid around his brain sloshing around like a long forgotten bottle in the backseat of a car. But he won’t sleep anytime soon, he’s not hungry, and the ghosts have started to play.

He wonders if Jesse is around tonight, if he’s knocking his knuckles against the wood inside the kitchen cabinets. Zayn sometimes isn’t sure which ghost makes which sound, but he guesses that one is Jesse. When they were little, Jesse used to climb up onto the kitchen counter at his house, his sticky feet all over the chipped yellow laminate, to reach for hidden food on the top shelf. His dad sometimes put Pop-Tarts up there, to eat after his long business meetings, the stress lines deepening in his forehead as he shooed his children up to their bedrooms. Jesse didn’t see his father often, especially during the work week, so he’d shove the kids away angrily, any time they bothered their dad during his Pop-Tart time. Zayn knew Jesse hated to take his dad’s food, so they’d only ever split one pack for a late night snack.

Zayn hears the wind howl through the crack in the kitchen window, the only one he'll leave open, in his old Midtown apartment. The telltale knock from inside the kitchen behind the cupboard doors. Zayn smiles, like it’s Jesse saying hi.

Maybe Destiny’s here, he thinks as he shuts his eyes. Maybe she’ll be here from now on, even though they’ve never met.

Zayn spreads out the photos side by side now, sifting further back. The first few photos are of the bodies: floor placement, close ups of each wound, shots from certain vantage points from around the room. He needs to focus on Jesse first, to make himself relive it. He touches a finger to the photos of Jesse’s bedroom, the sunroom, blood spatter from a photo frame to the right of Jesse’s body. He was stabbed in the stomach first, during the initial struggle, when Jesse was still on his feet. He tried to fight further, even as his intestines were ripped open inside his torso and his hands were sliced from grabbing for the knife. He ended up on his back and was stabbed a second time, harder, cleaner, a straight downward motion right into his chest.

 _He fought hard_ , Zayn nods to himself with a sniff. His lung was punctured past the point of repair, so says the M.E. report, and he bled out from his wounds in addition to suffocating on his own breath. To this day, Zayn sometimes dreams of the rattling sounds he must’ve made, as he slowly drifted away.

Judging from the identical wounds, Destiny died the same way: on her back, in her own house, eyes wide open. Zayn shivers, a breath ghosting through his hair, fingertips dancing along his forearm. _You’ll figure it out, Zayn. You got this._ Jesse doesn’t ever speak to him, but Zayn can sometimes feel the words, perhaps. He can sense those words under his skin, the goose bumps lighting up down his legs.

These cases are connected. But they’re not connected by anyone other than Zayn Malik. This isn’t the work of a serial killer, Jesse’s case isn’t cold, no one has “struck again” in the same house.

Zayn bites his lip and moves the initial pictures from Jesse’s file to the couch. He picks up the photos of himself, thirteen, lanky, horrified, staring at the camera from the police station with vacant eyes. They took pictures of him, in case it came out that Zayn had been sexually assaulted. They worried someone broke into the house and assaulted both boys, before killing Jesse, Zayn too traumatized to admit what happened. He didn’t understand it until a few years later, when he was in high school, depressed and alone in his bedroom. Out of nowhere, he suddenly remembered the “check up” at the hospital immediately after the police station, when they told him to take off his clothes so they could take more pictures. He cursed himself for not getting it then. He was young when it happened, too young to process that they all figured he’d been hurt too, in his own way. Jesse’s autopsy proved that he wasn’t abused before his death, and neither was Zayn. It’s the one thing anyone ever took comfort in, sadly.

He doesn’t want to look at himself in those pictures, white as a sheet, so he shoves them under the file folders.

The last photos are the ones Zayn needs to see most, the ones added to the file only a few days after the murder itself. The final piece to Jesse Klein’s puzzle. The photos of his killer.

Timothy Bates, age 28, from Omaha, Nebraska. Convicted of the murder of Jesse Klein in the first degree, on May 19th, 2003. The defendant, who lived with his elderly mother only four blocks away from 2420 South 32nd Ave, got drunk and then came through the Klein front door at 3:03 am on August 14th, 2002 with the intent to rob them. He told the police that he used to work for Mike and Marcy Klein’s company, and knew that Mike kept money and family valuables in the buffet chest in the dining room. On him, he had a backpack and a hunting knife tucked in his boot. Right as he entered the home, he was surprised when a young boy came down the stairs. Jesse tried to yell at him, to get out of his house. There was a struggle.

Timothy Bates had nothing to live for and didn’t care about much beyond his own wants and needs. He was caught off guard by the boy, and said in his statement that the boy called him a pussy. He then fought with and stabbed a thirteen-year-old child, before he watched that child die a slow and painful death. He never said why he placed Jesse’s arms over his chest. A witness, friend of the deceased, saw a man matching his description fleeing the scene of the crime. When he was arrested, he still had the hunting knife in his boot.

Timothy Bates, now age 45, still resides in maximum-security prison just outside of Lincoln. Zayn knows this, because he stepped outside for a cigarette after getting to the station earlier, and called to check in for himself. Jesse’s killer was still there, behind bars, sharing a cell with a guy who smothered his grandmother to death with a pillow.

Timothy Bates did not kill Destiny Houthakker. It was impossible for the same person to have killed both Jesse and Destiny. Someone else stabbed Destiny, twice, right there where Jesse died, and it was for a very specific reason: for Zayn to see it. For Zayn to be in the present position he’s in, hands in his hair, tears in his eyes, wondering if it was all his fault. Again.

Someone wanted Zayn to find Destiny, in matching clothes, with her eyes wide and arms crossed over herself after a struggle. Someone wanted Zayn to suffer.

It’s working. He is.

Zayn slaps the file folders shut, side by side, and stands up to grab his car keys.

\---

 

 _March 19, 2019_  
_10:58 pm_

To the naked eye, he’s a prowler. Or maybe he’s the ghost of one. He’s a lone man in a grey hoodie, briskly walking towards a darkened house that only that morning was swarmed with police. But Zayn’s not stupid, so he at least has his badge on the chain around his neck and his gun tucked in his jeans, if anyone asks.

Determined, he hops the stairs to the porch on 32nd Ave and gently lifts the tape over the slit in the door, to let himself in. The crime scene is no longer live, but the clean up crew won’t arrive until the next morning. Zayn called the owner of the building, some slick couple in Texas who own a few buildings across the Midwest. One of them berated Zayn long enough to say he needs to make sure the crew takes photos for insurance purposes since two of the boarders have already called to say they’re vacating. The owners didn’t ask about Destiny at all.

The house sits completely silent and dark, a ghost town creaking slightly in the wind. The only light to illuminate Zayn’s way into the main room is from the moon, giving the place an eerie glow. It’s not unfamiliar, the hair on the back of Zayn’s neck standing up, as he looks down at where Jesse and Destiny both died. It’s old and familiar, how he feels odd, on edge, scared, when in this house.

Destiny’s blood has dried on the wood floor to the point that it looks like paint. It always ends up looking like paint, once it’s seeped into cracks and crevices. It’s almost a perfect circle, except smeared in spots from investigator boots and swabbed cotton. Zayn stares at it, his hands in his pockets, the last bits of Destiny left behind.

Like Jesse, her death wasn’t as violent as any of them have seen in the past. She didn’t have her brains blown out by a shotgun, which makes the scene especially red. Brain matter on the ceiling, pieces of skull lodged into the staircase, blood sprayed onto each wall like she was a sprinkler system on a golf course. Stab wounds like the ones from Jesse and Destiny are cleaner, when it comes to blood. Especially since she must’ve laid there, hardly moving, in too much pain to try, it seeping around her like an almost perfect oval.

Zayn can’t help but stare at it, the maroon red blood cells dried into the wood. He feels his foot twitch in his Nike, that phantom itch of Jesse’s blood between his toes. He can feel the emotions finally taking over, the prickling behind his eyeballs, the flutter in his chest. It was his fault back then, and it’s his fault now. He’s now responsible for two people, two ghosts, two mourning families.

He’ll have to talk to Destiny’s mother once the sun rises, explain to her what happened, see the whites of her eyes turn pink from trying not to cry. He’ll have to shake her father’s hand and give him words of wisdom, how he’ll get justice for their daughter, if it’s the last thing he does.

But Jesse’s detective had a lead. Mere hours after he was found dead, a witness from Mitch Klein’s company came forward and said to look at neighborhood lowlife Tim Bates, the drunk with defaulted loans and a dead car battery on his front porch. He confessed after only a day’s worth of interrogation. He was caught, handcuffed, and awaiting trial only a few days after Jesse’s funeral. For Destiny, Zayn has nothing. He doesn’t have any gut feelings, no immediate evidence in a photograph, no names to go off of, just a stripper who swears she’d recognize a face if she ever saw it again. It’s nothing.

As Zayn brings his hands to his face, to scratch at the hair lining his cheeks, he sends up a silent prayer. Hopefully the autopsy gives a clue. Maybe a girl from the club will call with something better. Maybe whoever wants to punish Zayn will make it quick, and come forward to rub it in his face. Maybe he’ll figure out what he did to deserve it in the first place, aside from the obvious. _You killed your best friend,_ the voice in his head says, _you deserve this enough just fine._ Maybe his own knife wounds will be swift, when it’s his time. Maybe he’ll see Jesse again.

He takes a minute to stand still, to keep his eyes closed, to force himself to feel thirteen and scared in his house. He needs to feel, to think, to remember. But the small inhale from the chair in the corner startles Zayn half to death. His reflexes take over, almost like he’s back on the streets of North O when he was in uniform years ago, and his gun is out of his jeans. He whips his entire body towards the fireplace, gun held high, safety off, heaving.

Harry Styles throws his hands up, terrified and caught, before slamming his eyes shut.

“It’s me, it’s me, it’s me,” he cries.

“What the _fuck_ are you doing here?” Zayn hisses, without lowering his gun.

“I live here!”

“I told all of you to stay somewhere else,” Zayn heaves.

After a few seconds, he finally clips the safety back into place, breath still uneven in his chest. He doesn’t like to feel startled at all, let alone here again, but reminds himself it’s against policy to hold a weapon on someone sitting inside their own house, and that technically, Zayn’s the one trespassing in a place he doesn’t belong.

“I know,” Harry winces.

Harry finally opens his eyes and brings his hands to his lap, his face red and puffy. He’s a mess of limbs as he sits in one of the plush armchairs flanking the fireplace, facing the main room and couch, just how the Kleins had it decorated. He’s dirty, his jeans and tshirt ruffled, his greasy hair in a bun.

“How did you even get in here?”

“My key. The back door.”

Zayn taps his finger on the gun in his hand and exhales, too overwhelmed to berate Harry as a suspect at the moment. He should leave. He doesn’t know why he came in the first place.

“You need to sleep somewhere else, I told you,” Zayn blinks slowly, his entire body starting to curl into itself from exhaustion.

“I don’t think I could sleep even if I tried,” Harry’s sad eyes drift towards the dried blood on the floor. “Could you?”

Zayn shouldn’t answer that. Harry is a suspect, the main fucking suspect in the entire investigation, and Zayn should leave. Harry is a liar, a good one too, if his body language is anything to go by. He might know all of Zayn’s deepest fears, this house being the top of the list, and Zayn should definitely leave.

“No,” he ends up admitting, his own eyes landing back to Destiny’s blood. “Don’t think I could either.” _I never did. I still can’t._

They continue to stare at the floor together, neither saying anything, both lost in their thoughts. Zayn feels himself falling backwards in time, no longer present and in charge of the situation. He almost tells Harry that he’ll never sleep well again, his body will never relax enough to let him, so he might as well get used to it. He almost pities Harry. But then he’s fighting with himself to remember that for all he knows, Harry killed Destiny right here. Harry may know Zayn’s past, and for whatever reason, wanted this all to unfold.

Zayn turns his head to stare at Harry, already slipping back towards Detective Malik. Destiny’s blood has barely dried on the floor and Harry’s sitting in the dark staring at it. _Are you guilty? Did you do this? Why? Was it to punish me? Did I hurt you first? How?_

Harry blinks at him, eyes pleading, toes curling.

_You’re a liar. Stop trying to convince me otherwise._

“I know you want to talk to me more,” Harry finally offers, his arms wrapping around his legs. “I know that. And I’ll tell you anything you want to know. But just… I didn’t kill her.”

Zayn stares at him harder, to assess him like a detective instead of as a bystander in his best friend’s old house. He tries to remove himself from the living room, from his terrified state and upset mind, to be Zayn Malik. He looks through Harry. He needs his gut to kick in, to give him direction, to tell him what to do. He needs to know if Harry knows who he is. He needs an answer.

“I didn’t kill her,” Harry whispers a second time, lip shaking. “I swear.”

Zayn doesn’t respond or question him further, as a detective. Something still nags at him, something very off about Harry, but he doesn’t want to think about it tonight. Not now.

Something in him shifts. He’s not staring at Harry anymore, and instead his mind clicks on like a film reel. Instead, he’s thirteen and shaking, his hands aching from holding them in fists for too long. He’s sixteen and crying on the floor of his closet, after a house party when a sweet, smiling boy whispered in his ear and tried to touch him. He’s in college, hung over, pulling at his hair until a chunk falls out, when he vowed to quit partying, when he needed to find purpose, something where he can help people. He’s torn, a young detective working on his very first case as the lead, standing over the body of a dead girl along the Missouri River. A young, blonde girl, OD’d in the dirt, with blue skin, a fist held to his mouth so he won’t grieve for a stranger while in the midst of internally cheering for himself, for finding his path after all. He’s telling that girl’s family, as her brother cries all over him that she couldn't have died from drugs, it was impossible, someone hurt her, to look again. He's patting the brother's arm, apologizing for his loss, and that now she can finally know peace. He's thinking _maybe I'll know peace now too._

He’s so many things, different versions of himself in that moment, as he zones back in to the present day, as they stare at each other. He’s a child and a lost teenager and a man with a purpose. And yet none of them feel like him at all, as the scents of iron and plastic police tape slam into him.

Zayn gives Harry one last look, laced with pity and sadness and guilt of his own. He’s angry and bursting with some emotion he can’t place, like all he can do is stop himself from throwing Harry to the floor. To knock Harry’s skull against the wood, over and over, to demand an answer. _Do you know what I did? What I didn’t do? Did I hurt you first? How?_

Harry blinks at him, nods to the couch even, to invite Zayn to join him in his late night solitude. The main murder suspect in Destiny’s case invites Zayn to sit down, like they’re old friends.

It’s all wrong. Zayn’s mind won’t stop racing and his heart can’t keep up.

So he grips his gun tighter and heads back to the front door. He has to leave. He slips out quietly and replaces the police seal with sore fingers.

 

\---

 _May 19, 2003_  
_10:29 am_

Zayn very purposefully focuses on his shoelaces as the judge finishes up her speech. It’s all about Jesse and how justice has been served. Tim Bates hasn’t blinked in what seems like hours and all Zayn can hear is Jesse’s mom’s sobs from up front.

His dad tries to hold his hand as they walk back to the car, but Zayn needs the tie around his neck off as soon as possible. It’s constricting his airway and he’s afraid his lips might turn blue if he doesn’t get enough oxygen.

They say Zayn is “safe” now. That Jesse is “free.” They keep saying that it’s over, that they’ll all be able to heal, now that the trial is done.

Zayn’s not so sure.

He focuses on his shoelaces in the car too. It’s easier to look down at them than to look up towards the sky.

 

\---

 

 _March 20, 2019_  
_2:16 am_

This cigarette, like most late night cigarettes, is a futile attempt at tranquility. The up-down motion can technically be soothing on its own, the acrid taste of nicotine and rat poison does lace the lungs with something calming and still, Zayn knows. It’s the reason so many people smoke in the first place: a specific time, place, and action that are all the same, no matter who you are or where you live in the world. Zayn’s cigarette is the same cigarette as the guy in Australia, sitting on his own front steps, worrying over a late bill, or the woman in Brussels smoking just because, like she has since she was in university studying philosophy with her best friends, before they all moved away.

But it’s no use, because smoking kills, sooner or later. It doesn’t actually help or soothe old wounds. Zayn’s cigarettes certainly never do. To smoke a cigarette is to believe in a pipe dream, something fake and gross and pathetic. Jesse never intended for Zayn to feel pathetic. But as he sits there on his front steps in his sweats, ignoring the case files inside, sucking on a lit filter, that’s all there is.

He takes another drag as a car drives past. It’s too late in his neighborhood, not far from the Midtown bars, but not close enough to warrant 2 a.m. traffic. Maybe it’s someone on the way to the airport. Or heading to an emergency room. Or some lonely fuck like Zayn, out driving around because they don’t like the taste of smoke. Lucky bastard.

Zayn’s block is quiet most nights, one side of it lined with the duplexes Zayn lives in and the other side lined with identical houses: small, “quaint,” with minuscule lawns, pruned hedges, flower boxes exploding full of all different colored roses and Morning Glories. The opposite side of Zayn’s street, of his life, is full of mostly old retired couples and young families in their first starter houses, swapping recipes and holiday cards. But Zayn doesn’t know much more than that. He never talks to any of them, chooses to keep to himself, or so goes the lie he repeats if someone asks. He can almost hear Jesse laughing at him now, _sure Zayn, whatever you say, don’t talk to your neighbors huh? Sure sounds like you talk to one of them quite a bit, when she’s screaming your name every other night._

As if on cue, he hears her door snap shut to his right, as he stubs out his cigarette. She’s so quiet with it now, so careful not to make noise this time of night. Zayn isn’t surprised that he only hears her coming when the door closes. She’s like a cat, quick feet and hunched slightly, gripping the sweatshirt around her torso.

“Can’t sleep?” Lexi bites her lip with a small smile, coming to stand right in front of him. Her long black hair sweeps across her cheeks tonight, over the fresh blush she must’ve applied before leaving her living room. She obscures his view of the odd shaped grey house across the street, the one with the crooked shutters and overgrown rose beds. Sometimes Zayn thinks Lexi obscures everything.

“Never,” he admits, scratching his head.

“Can I make you feel better?”

“Lex…” he tries to warn her, with a sigh.

“Zayn.”

“Lex, we shouldn’t,” Zayn shakes his head, exhausted and spent. He briefly wonders if he should make coffee, to jolt himself with something, since the cigarette couldn’t.

Lexi reaches for his shoulders to knead them, the tension releasing from his muscles almost immediately. Zayn feels his body falling forward, curling into itself before he can help it, his forehead resting against her stomach. He forgets for a few minutes, Jesse and Destiny and Harry and that house. He lets himself drift, his breath blowing hot into Lexi’s sweatshirt, her fingernails along his shoulders and in his hair. He can feel her wedding ring.

“Come on, babe,” she steps back to kiss his forehead. “I’ll take care of you.”

Zayn gets led into his own house, Lexi’s fingers gripping him hard, her ass swaying. She does that sometimes, even when she’s in nothing but a pair of ratty pajama bottoms and her husband’s Husker sweatshirt. It’s genuinely sexy in a way Zayn never understands, this stranger from four doors down who kissed him first all those months ago, on his front steps.

Zayn slips under after coming in her mouth, out like a light before she’s even dressed again. He only gets about an hour and a half worth of sleep though, since soon after one of his ghosts pulls at his hair and wakes him with a gasp.

 

 

 

  


	2. DAYS 2 AND 3

**DAY 2**

 

_March 20, 2019  
12:21 pm_

It’s one of those days. Whenever Zayn looks at the clock, he doesn’t actually believe the time. It’s like every hour feels later than it really is, or like not enough time as passed from the last time he checked. Or the worst is when he glances at his phone and realizes that it’s past noon on the second day of an investigation and he’s too exhausted to function.

Zayn presses at his temples and closes his eyes. It’s too much. His desk is a mess. Jesse Klein’s file is in his bag. Destiny Houthakker is in the middle of being cut open. He made another mistake with Lex the night before. Sergeant Mulcahy with the stick up his ass, passed Zayn and CJ earlier. He mentioned “the dead stripper” from yesterday. Didn’t even look up from his phone, asking if they had any leads. Didn’t even pretend to give a shit.

But no, they do not have any leads. No evidence to further them along. None of the neighbors saw anything, the boarders have all scattered, effectively given their notices to live elsewhere. And above all else, there’s someone out in the world, who for whatever reason wants nothing more than to torture Detective Zayn Malik.

He needs a Vicodin.

“It’s Romano’s birthday,” CJ interrupts his thoughts with a sigh, tossing a small plate of cake onto Zayn’s desk.

“Good for him,” Zayn says, his eyes still closed, leaning back in his chair.

“You need to eat.”

“You need to worry about yourself, Ceej.”

Zayn doesn’t like being babied. It’s something CJ still grapples with, since he’s the oldest of five kids and thinks it’s his second fucking job, to cater to others. Fulfill their needs, check up on them, pass out packets of Emergen-C when he hears a few too many coughs in the bullpen. It’s probably why he got into detective work in the first place: protect, serve, and feed dessert to his cop buddies when they look stressed out. Sure, sometimes it’s convenient, like when he shows up at Zayn’s place with coffee. But other times, like when he’s shoving disgusting store-bought cake under his nose, Zayn sort of wants to smack him upside the head and tell him to get a fucking life.

Zayn could also tell him that the reason _he_ became a detective was because he stepped in pool of blood once, well before his fucking balls dropped, and really, _that’s_ a real fucking reason to get into a job of service.

CJ doesn’t respond.

Zayn doesn’t need to open his eyes to see CJ’s face, to know that he’s glaring at him for being a dick, outwardly _and_ inside his head.

“Sorry,” Zayn mumbles, finally sitting up. He rubs at his sore eyelids and pretends to shuffle the contents of Destiny’s file around.

“Cake. Eat.”

CJ points to the plate and then ambles away, back towards the kitchen where various detectives and officers have congregated for another birthday celebration, spilling out into the bullpen. Today’s is courtesy of Officer Romano, some guy Zayn remembers from another case last year, when he was the first uniform on the scene to a double homicide downtown. Good for him. Another year older, another shitty cake.

It amazes Zayn, as he looks around the crowded station, that no one knows what’s going on. Not much is happening at the moment: no big cases to attend to, no shootings overnight, no calls coming in. It’s a bunch of detectives at their desks doing paperwork, uniformed cops not yet on duty, random phone calls interrupting the steady stream of conversation. Zayn can’t blame them, since they don’t know about the storm surging in his head, the thoughts crowding into each other like commuters in a subway car. None of these people got called in for a dead girl the day before, or spent the last day going over the details. None of them had a married woman suck them off overnight, before heading home with her hair a mess, a smirk on her face.

It’s about then, in the middle of that stream of thought, that Zayn realizes he’s in too shitty of a mood to be there any longer. He should gather his things and go.

But he’s too drained to even move. He’s completely exhausted, after both the night he had and that morning’s activity.

The day started off in an immediate decline. CJ was the one to escort Destiny’s parents into an interview room, the one to formally introduce them to Zayn. Clark and Rita Ward, Destiny’s stepfather and mother. They were the definition of simple country folk: farmers from Valentine, with dirty fingernails and circles under their eyes that aged them by about fifteen years. Rita did all the talking, as Clark sat stoic with his mustache twitching and Husker hat between his palms. They declined coffee. Zayn knew they wanted this to be quick.

They hadn’t spoken to Destiny in over six months, once they had a falling out. An argument over her living situation and lack of direction. They told her they’d stop helping her pay her bills. “Her car, mostly. That thing rang us up a ton,” Rita said, tears in her eyes.

It was clear that Destiny’s parents didn’t approve of her choice to leave home. It was clear, as they sat there in discolored plastic chairs in a stuffy Omaha police station, that they didn’t belong here and didn’t think Destiny did either. All they wanted was to go home, back to their farm where everything made sense.

So Zayn made it easy on them: without going into graphic detail, and without mentioning the strip club, he quietly slid over a photo of Destiny. It was from the crime scene, a close up of her face, color corrected so they wouldn’t see the slight blue, waxy tone to her skin. With a gasp and a nod, Rita confirmed what they already knew, that it was Destiny. She then immediately pushed her chair back to leave. Because no, they didn’t want to see the body until the funeral.

Zayn said he was sorry for their loss. He promised to find their daughter’s killer. A minute later, CJ escorted them from the room, Clark holding Rita’s hand as she bawled her eyes out, and that, as they say, was that.

Zayn didn’t make his notes until after they were gone. It didn’t accomplish much or help him in any way, as all he wrote was, _mother and stepfather not suspects, birth father dead, didn’t know their daughter well._

And then, _check phone record, check Harry’s whereabouts._

So that’s what they did. Both armed with the knowledge that the autopsy was being performed at that very moment, they got to work. Kicked back at his desk with his brow furrowed, CJ called the phone company while Zayn, curled in on himself, called Mr. Toad’s. He wanted to get a read on Harry Styles’ night before he arrived back at the house, to see if he behaved oddly. But of course since the universe hates him, Zayn was told by the bar manager that Harry was the same as always. Smiled at the crowd. Tipped the bartenders. Chatted up some blonde from the band that performed before his did, left at around 11:45. Zayn tried to grasp all of the adjectives the manager could give him about Harry, as he described the man he knew.

_Funny. Nice. Drunk. Flirty. Not a care in the world. Wild and carefree._

Zayn couldn’t help but think to himself that it must be nice, to not care about anything. To be free.

Just then, someone across the room tells the punch line of a joke. A crowd of uniforms bursts out laughing, their sergeant even joining in, toasting to more cake and coffee. It’s like everyone decided to start the weekend early, to have a fucking party, clearly, instead of working like they’re supposed to. Zayn picks up the plate of cake and slams it down into the garbage bin under his desk.

They say if a case doesn’t have any major breakthroughs or leads within the first 48 hours after time of death, it’s practically a lost cause. A dead end. Cold. It’s not lost on Zayn that he’s losing precious time, for Destiny and for himself. To figure out who killed her and why. Who they are. What they know about him.

All he can do now is wait for the various calls: from Trace, with results from Destiny’s clothes and bedroom. Swabs, samples, microscopic evidence none of them could see. Tech Forensics with details from her computer. Dr. Knight to call him to the morgue for the prelim about the body, whatever he can give Zayn, beyond the test results they’ll have to wait for.

Anything. _Any_ sort of clue.

Zayn rubs at his temples as another burst of laughter comes from the far end of the room.

He takes a breath to calm down. He can’t help but whisper it to himself.

“Come on, Destiny. Tell me something.”

\---

 

_March 20, 2019  
2:02 pm_

It’s better now that her eyes are closed. Easier to look at her up close.

As Zayn unevenly steps around the table, CJ reaches out to grip him by the hip so he doesn’t fall into it. Zayn definitely needs more coffee to survive the day and keep focused on the case.

It’s CJ’s least favorite part of any open case, the breakdown of the autopsy. He doesn’t look too hard at the cold, decaying corpse laid out, chest cavity stitched back together in a T-shape, covered only with a thin sheet. They’re lucky that this time, Knight placed the top half of her skull back where it’s supposed to be, after inspecting her brain. CJ usually has to leave the room if he can see brain matter.

So Zayn, being the lead detective and not at all concerned for his own well-being at the moment, steps up. He grips the table with one hand as Dr. Knight hands him the report.

“Well boys, I don’t have much for you,” he says.

Zayn hangs his head, only for a moment. He should’ve known immediately, when he walked in and Knight didn’t have gloves on, that this was a going to be a waste of time. If Knight has gloves on, it means he has to touch the body, something to show them: a marking, hidden tattoo, a foreign object lodged somewhere. New evidence.

“Nothing?” Zayn groans.

“Correct. All I have is what I told you at the crime scene. Defensive wounds on her hands, from trying to wrestle the knife away. Two wounds to the chest and abdomen from a serrated knife, which caused her to bleed out. If you find me the murder weapon, I can match it with my findings.”

CJ takes a step back from the table, his shadow casting over Destiny’s lower half.

“No blunt force trauma to the skull. She didn’t hit her head. No other wounds, everything was healthy and working as it should,” Knight continues, moving around the table up near her shoulder. “No foreign hairs. Nothing under her fingernails. And… no signs of recent sexual activity within the last forty-eight hours. No signs of sexual assault.”

Zayn exhales the breath he was holding. Not pregnant. Nothing.

“Sorry,” Knight says quietly. “I wish I had more to give you. I sent blood samples off to toxicology, so I’ll let you know if anything lights up.”

“Thanks,” Zayn mumbles, reaching to shake Knight’s hand. They both know even if she was on drugs, it doesn't mean much.

Knight grips his hand in both of his and nods.

He’s a good guy who has been doing the job for over twenty years. He was the first coroner Zayn ever worked with, on his first case with the dead girl along the Missouri River. The one with the little tattoos and blue skin, the girl who Zayn had to stop himself from crying over. Knight saw him that day and actually clapped him on the shoulder for keeping it together. Knight’s good. So there’s no question in Zayn’s mind: nothing has been missed or mishandled here. Destiny’s body has given them everything she can.

“Has the family claimed her?” Knight asks.

“Yeah.”

“Well… at least we know she can go home now,” Knight says solemnly, as the three of them turn to look at Destiny Houthakker for the last time. Since the M.E. report has been signed off on and recorded, that’s it. Knight will sign the death certificate and give word that the body can be transported back to Valentine for burial.

Back home.

CJ and Knight head for the double doors leading away from the morgue, their quiet chatter nothing but white noise to Zayn’s ears. Maybe they know Zayn should be the one to do it. To lift the sheet up over Destiny’s calm, serene face and let her rest.

As he does it, as his hands shake to cover her, Zayn can’t help but wonder who did this for Jesse.

 

\---

_March 20, 2019  
3:44 pm_

On it rolls, then.

Zayn finds himself back at his desk yet again, this time with his computer screen tilted away so CJ can’t see. Still not ready to tell anyone about what happened in the house before Destiny, he keeps his secondary work private. Checks the whereabouts of the Klein family members, to see that they moved to Florida in 2004. He also runs Harry’s plates, just because.

Not even a parking ticket.

Soon after, the calls come in one by one, at warped speed because he cashed in on a few favors. To his colleagues in various departments, Zayn made it very clear: please make it quick and put Destiny at the top of the priority list. It’s a lucky thing that he lives and works in a place like Omaha, so that he can expedite the departments. A dead stripper taking priority in New York or Miami? Good fucking luck.

Tech calls first, with info about the phone and computer. Zayn takes notes, on a new page in his folio.

Nothing out of the ordinary, just regular shit a nineteen-year-old girl would have in her phone. A picture of an artsy hand-drawn heart as its background. Pictures of a few friends, random snapshots of her life since moving to Omaha. A few girls Zayn recognizes from his brief time in the strip club, but nothing scandalous or brazen, nothing from actually _inside_ the club with questionable men in the background, men to identify. Clearly Destiny kept it quiet, from anyone back home, that she worked at a shitty strip club near the airport.

Boring social media posts about a cousin, celebrities, musicians. Instagrams of a puppy in Elmwood Park, a vase full of roses, a sunset, a pond. More Facebook posts that don’t give any concrete details into her extracurricular activities. Just how "happy" she is out on her own. No weird or cryptic texts. No correspondence between her and Harry. The only new phone contacts from the last six months seem to be for the club, Rayna, three of the four roommates from the house including Harry, the landlord, and a pizza place on Center Street.

Zayn frowns, as they go over the phone info. He writes a quick word in the page’s margin.

_Lonely._

Her computer is also clean. No new documents or diary-like entries. No posts about how hard her life has been since moving away from home. Nothing interesting from her email. Zayn tries to interrupt the girl from Tech, to ask if she had any other hidden email addresses or weird website logins, but is quickly shot down.

“Seriously, Malik,” she says in a huff, needing to move on to other cases. “We looked through everything. No Harry, no Styles. That’s all there is.”

No Harry Styles anywhere, no pictures, not even a mention of him.

No other male names. Nothing.

“Shit,” he mumbles, gesturing to CJ as he walks over from taking a piss. He pushes his folio towards him so CJ can read it for himself.

Just as Zayn expects, he also frowns and crosses his arms. He knows it just as well as Zayn does: the longer they go in the day, the more people they talk to, the more fucked they are. The case is losing steam.

Zayn also knows by CJ’s expression, that he’s not so sure Harry Styles has anything to do with it anymore. Zayn can practically hear his thoughts: _he’s not on her phone, nowhere on the computer, they’re practically strangers who just shared a bathroom, we gotta move on, Zayn._

Zayn wants to scream at him, that Harry knows something. But he keeps it to himself. He can’t get into it with CJ, because then it’ll throw open the Jesse Box he keeps locked up tight inside his chest. It’s there right next to his old dependency issues, years worth of guilt, his break up with Luke after college, and Lexi.

Not even thirty seconds later, Zayn’s picking up another call, pushing CJ out of his way so he can hurry to start a new page.

And maybe the universe doesn’t totally hate Zayn. Maybe whoever brought Zayn back into the Klein house isn’t as smart as he thinks he is. As CJ looks on in bewilderment, Zayn actually punches a fist into the air. The blood rushes to his face, as he gets put on speakerphone with Dalton and another tech in the lab.

“On the sheets,” the tech says, also in a rush, excited to have found something substantial from within Destiny’s room and car.

“You’re sure?”

“Tested it twice, my friend,” Dalton says with a smile in his voice. “Made sure it was clear acid phosphatise. Male DNA on the bed sheets, ready to be matched up to whoever you bring in.”

Zayn blinks and jots it down.

_Semen. DNA. From how long ago? Who did you let in?_

“Thanks boys,” Zayn says, already standing up. “Send it over.”

Zayn practically throws the phone back to his desk and begins stuffing pages and print outs into Destiny’s file, getting caught in his own tie. CJ watches for a beat, before gracefully moving out of the way so Zayn doesn’t knock into him. They both know that for the rest of the day, Zayn doesn’t want CJ’s help. Male DNA on the sheets means someone got sloppy. It means a man was in Destiny’s room at some point. The man who wanted Zayn to see a dead girl in that house, maybe he left part of himself behind.

So he needs to work on matching it to the one fucking person who was home when she died, the guy who lied to Zayn’s face. The only suspect and lead they have. At the last second, Zayn grabs for his folio full of his notes.

“Zayn, you can’t get too excited about this.”

He gives CJ a pointed look and throws his bag over his shoulder.

“A guy was in her room. We know that now. So I’m gonna go talk to a guy. That’s all.”

“Zayn,” CJ sighs, crossing his arms. He knows Zayn won’t sleep a wink until he finds something, anything, that has to do with Harry Styles.

But Zayn doesn’t listen and walks away, keys and phone already in hand, gesturing to say _I’ll call you when I can._

“Don’t worry, I’ll be fine. I can’t sit still anymore. So I’m gonna go see what our lead suspect has been up to.”

 

\---

_March 20, 2019  
9:28 pm_

Harry Styles has an odd walk and he touches his lips far too often.

That’s what Zayn decides as he sinks further down in the driver’s seat, his eyes following Harry amble down the cramped street and into the bar.

It’s like when they met the night before in the Klein house. Ever since he left the station that afternoon, ever since he finally found Harry and started to tail him, all Zayn does is stare and stare, unblinking, thinking. _Are you guilty? Did you do this? Why? Was it to punish me? Did I hurt you first? How?_

While CJ has been at his desk compiling everything sent over from Tech and Trace, Zayn’s been in their car parked outside of the hotel Harry checked into with an almost-maxed-out credit card, then a restaurant as Harry had dinner with two unknown females, and now outside of Mr. Toad’s.

But this is necessary. Zayn knows Harry Styles is lying. He also knows that just because you can’t be found in someone’s phone through photos or texts, doesn’t mean you’re a stranger. Lexi isn’t in Zayn’s phone, they’ve never communicated electronically, and he’s secretly been fucking her without her husband knowing for months.

If someone doesn’t want to leave a trace or any digital footprint behind, they won’t.

He doodles. He takes more notes, to distract himself from thinking of that particular ongoing mistake. He doesn't like to think about Lexi’s husband. She said he’s inattentive. Boring. Works all day in construction and only wants to drink Bud Light and watch Jimmy Fallon most nights. Their weekends are usually spent apart. She’s bored to tears.

But by all accounts, he’s a good guy. Or least, he's not a _bad_ guy, not someone who deserves for his wife to fuck the neighbor. Thinking about Lexi’s situation just leads to feelings of suffocation and soul-crushing guilt, and honestly, Zayn has been drowning in the guilt from hearing his best friend get murdered since he was thirteen. And that’s more than enough.

He shakes his head to snap out of it. Focus.

_Odd walk. Pinches his lip. Smiles too much. Friendly._

_Came home last night, saw her light on, but didn’t say hello. He says hello to everyone._

_Destiny loud?_

_Says he didn’t hurt her. Liar._

_Need his DNA. Look for a cup or bottle once he’s finished it. Bag it fast._

Zayn can hear the beginning sounds of a band gearing up to play, so he turns off the car. The random strums on an electric guitar, a drummer testing out his symbols, _check check_ in a mic, and that’s when Zayn decides to make his move. To get close when Harry is otherwise distracted.

He throws a black Yankees hat on. And at the last minute, he removes the badge from around his neck to tuck it into his pocket.

 

_\---_

_March 20, 2019  
9:36 pm_

Zayn doesn’t go out often. He especially doesn’t go to bars often. There’s not much here for him, since he doesn’t drink or enjoy the company of strangers. He doesn’t need to get laid, because he barely enjoys it when it’s Lex, and the music is usually shitty.

But he can fit in when he needs to. He’s good like that, after growing up the way he did. In the shadows. Unnoticed unless he wanted to be. In a black jacket and black jeans, he keeps his eyes low under his hat’s brim. He orders a Coke from the bartender, some pretty red head, and asks for a slice of lime, to make it look like a real drink.

Fit in. Play the part.

A piano starts to play, as a familiar song begins. Everyone knows it. People cheer. Zayn lifts his eyes only slightly towards the small stage in the corner. The band all look attractive, the two girls Harry ate with earlier playing bass and acoustic guitar. Harry Styles is of course the front man, the singer holding a mic to his face with those odd, ringed fingers of his. A too-big-for-him pink polka dotted shirt. _Tight_ jeans. Boots. His long hair perfectly disheveled just so, full of product. It’s all very purposeful. _I knew it._

He also notices that Harry didn’t bring a drink with him on stage, something Zayn could sneak into an evidence bag later, to collect his saliva. _Fuck._

Zayn narrows his eyes as Harry starts the first verse of the cover song, an opener that people can recognize so that they don’t turn away or go back to chatting with their friends. It’s to get the crowd involved in their set, probably full of original songs with “meaning.” It’s a little pathetic.

 _You’re no Bowie,_ Zayn thinks with an audible snort.

An attractive guy to his right looks over at him, at the sound. Cute. Straight, light brown hair and big eyes. He smiles, his teeth almost too pointed and razor sharp. Takes a step closer. Almost looks familiar. But that’s usually his subconscious’s way of saying _he’s familiar because he reminds you of Jesse Klein._ And if Zayn actually had vodka in his drink, his liquor of choice back in school, maybe he’d return the smile and lead the guy towards the men’s room.

Zayn turns away and shakes his head, to focus. He’s working and Jesse can’t be here, not tonight. He zeros in on the band once more, to get the guy to leave him be.

He keeps his head tilted low, doesn’t want to chance Harry seeing him in the crowd. He’d like a few more hours, maybe another full day, of following him. To see if he goes anywhere, talks to someone strange, acts odd.

As the song starts to wind down, Harry does some side-step move and smiles at the room full of beer drinkers. He clearly can’t dance, but he moves his hips well enough to fake it. Zayn notices that from his spot on the small stage, the height of the patrons below him falls right about dick-level. And Harry must know it because he practically shoves it towards a group of girls who stare up at him with stars in their eyes, his jeans straining.

Omaha doesn’t have many rock stars. At least, none who stay.

Harry Styles must let them fake it. Fake that he’s important, deserving of their admiration, a star born just up the block from them.

Zayn can’t help but narrow his eyes at this fool, as each song passes, at how easily he can manipulate a crowd. It's in the eyes. They pull the people in. It's all an act. He smiles like the devil taught him how, sucks a finger into his mouth like he might’ve spilled something on it before he got on stage, adjusting his belt like the girls staring up at him make him hard.

_Your roommate was found dead barely a day ago and you’re eye-fucking this entire room._

Zayn itches to take notes.

_Sociopath? Devoid of empathy? Can compartmentalize to the point of concern._

He doesn’t catch himself until it’s too late. Zayn stares too long and too hard, his face open, lip between his teeth. He wasn’t careful after all.

Harry Styles, with the mic down at his side during a guitar solo, turns and smirks at everyone lining the bar. His eyes rake over the cute guy to Zayn’s right, winks at him, before landing on Zayn.

They lock eyes and Harry stills. His face falls.

It’s not ideal, to have Harry know he’s being followed. To see Zayn right in front of him, unexpected, with hardened eyes.

But Zayn is quick on his feet, after years as a uniform. He knows what to do.

 

\---

_March 20, 2019  
10:21 pm_

“You’re following me,” comes the voice in the dark.

Footsteps get closer to Zayn in the back alley behind Toad’s, where he’s perched against a brick wall, face hidden. He’s had two cigarettes since the end of Harry’s set, and wondered how much longer he would have to wait, as he lit the third. Harry comes into view, steps into the light, and Zayn feels a shiver down his spine. Jesse whispers to _pay attention._

It’s fucking freezing, but Zayn tries his best to keep from shivering or moving his face much. Since he can’t follow Harry Styles any longer, he’ll do the next best thing: let Harry think he wanted to be seen. To be caught on purpose. After all, Harry thinks he’s pretty, and now he can use that to his advantage. But he needs to keep up his Detective Malik wall as well.

“’Following’ isn’t the right word,” Zayn says casually, taking another drag from his Camel Silver.

“And what is the right word?” Harry asks, leaning against the wall directly across from Zayn in the narrow alley. Eyes wide.

Zayn flicks ash to the concrete and watches it fall.

“’Watching.’”

He raises his face so he can tilt it some, letting the light catch the stubble of his jaw and dip to his cheekbone. His good angle.

Harry stares at him. He notices.

Harry puts his hands behind his back and props himself against them. Bouncing back against his fists a bit, either from nervous energy or to fight the chill in the air. Zayn notices that instead of putting his hair up in a bun, like he had at the crime scene and all day as Zayn tailed him, he’s left it loose. Long and blowing in the wind, whipping into his face, caught in his eyelashes as he returns Zayn’s stare. _This act must work on a lot of people._ _But it won’t work on me. You killed Destiny and you wanted me to find her._

“You still think I had something to do with it,” Harry says, as a statement instead of a question.

“And by ‘it’ you mean the murder of your roommate,” Zayn clarifies, so Harry can’t skirt around the words or downplay what happened. “Destiny. Who was stabbed twice, in your own entry way, and left to die like she meant nothing.”

Harry swallows. Zayn catches himself watching the movement of his throat.

“Good show,” Zayn says around the last dregs of smoke billowing from his lips, gesturing towards the bar.

“Thank you.”

“You light up a stage, don’t you,” he says quieter, head tilted, curious. “Not a care in the world. Was I the only one in that room who knows what happened yesterday?”

Harry doesn’t respond. Just blinks.

“Are you sleeping yet?” Zayn asks, throwing the spent cigarette to the ground. He’s good at reminding suspects of the things they let slip to him, either during questioning, or in quieter moments like the night before in the living room.

Zayn thinks Harry won’t respond to that either. But he does.

“Are you?” Harry counters, his eyebrows bouncing up towards his hairline.

_Yep, still good. You like to ruffle peoples’ feathers. Touché._

Zayn smiles at him. Just a small one. An innocent smirk. Almost sweet. He won’t let Harry have anything else. Won’t let him know that he’s stumped him, or that no, he hasn’t been sleeping, that he never can.

He also won’t let Harry know that they have DNA from Destiny’s room, not yet. He just wants Harry to know that this isn’t over.

Leave him in worried suspense.

“I’ll see you around, Harry,” Zayn finishes, pushing away from the wall and back towards the street. “Maybe don’t leave town anytime soon.”

Zayn doesn’t look back at him. He wants to leave Harry hanging, knowing that he’s still Roommate 2, still Suspect Number One. Not off the hook, not cleared of the crime.

 

\---

_March 21, 2019  
3:40 am_

A ghost runs a finger up the inside of his thigh. That’s what wakes him. Zayn sits up in bed like he’s been forcibly hooked to a rope, his equilibrium off, dizzy to be up and off his pillow. Heaving, he runs his fingers through his hair as his heart pounds in his chest.

As always, sleep eludes him. Even in the middle of a dream, his body, his ghosts, know to snap out of it. _Wake up. You’re missing it. You’re missing everything._

In his dream, he was with Jesse. It was hot, deadly heat, and they were in the plastic yellow and pink playhouse in the Klein backyard. It was their last summer together. But instead of Jesse forcing him to kiss Emma Hope, he pushed Zayn’s face towards someone else. A boy. A handsome boy who smelled amazing and had a wonderfully flat chest.

His actual face was hazy, but he reminded Zayn of Luke Willits, the guy he dated in college and then right after, when he started the police academy. Gorgeous, so gorgeous it almost hurt to look at him, tall, muscular, hands the side of dinner plates. He was the first guy to tell Zayn he loved him. Talked about how he wanted to “keep Zayn safe,” to kiss him under mistletoe and make him breakfast in bed. He wanted Zayn to meet his mom and twin brother, to go on vacation with them to Hawaii. To “really, truly commit.”

He was the first person Zayn ever opened up to, sort of. That final night, Zayn said something like, _I can’t because I’m sort of broken, and I’m not trying to be cliché I swear, because there is genuinely a part broken inside of me that can’t be fixed. You don’t want to raise kids with someone who can't sleep. You don't want someone like me._

As he packed up his things, Luke told him people aren’t cars. They aren’t carburetors or transmissions or engines that can be broken or fixed, because people are people, not machinery, not “fucking robots without emotion or actual feelings.”

Zayn mumbled something about how deep down, we’re actually sausage links, but Luke didn’t hear it. They never spoke again.

In any case, the dream reminded him of Jesse and Luke, the two most prominent boys from his past. And if Zayn could stop thinking about his past entirely, that would be really fucking nice.

Just then, Jesse knocks around in the cabinets in the kitchen, probably to be an asshole, so Zayn takes that as his cue to start the coffee maker. Might as well. He wants to research Harry Styles some more.

So he does and then sits on the couch, laptop and file folders in hand.

He prays Lex doesn’t see the light on. On nights she knows he can’t sleep, she comes for him. To kiss his cheek, shushes him like she knows he’s upset, takes his hand and pushes it down into her underwear.

He doesn’t have the room in his head for that tonight.

 

\---

 

**DAY 3**

_March 21, 2019  
8:10 am_

It doesn’t feel real sometimes, when Zayn actually stops down to think things over. Like now, when he’s crashing from not sleeping a wink, smoking his first cigarette of the day on his front steps.

That day in 2002 almost feels like a cosmic joke, a glitch in the Matrix, a temporal paradox. It’s like Zayn can think back on that day, and know it happened, that he was the one with blood between his toes, but be in disbelief that it was real. It wasn’t a figment of the imagination; it didn’t happen to Other People, those strangers over there, far off, removed. “That would never happen here, never to people like us.”

But it was real. It happened. It was “us.” It was _Jesse Klein_ and _Zayn_ and _that house_ on _that street_. _Here._ How is it even possible? How did it happen to Jesse?

Zayn remembers being young and wondering if there were signs present, to allude to Jesse’s fate. Things he did or said that people could look back on, could point fingers to, and say, “Remember how sweet he was? The sweet things he said? He was an angel, that Jesse Klein. Full of wisdom, even at his age. He was a little angel, destined to join God early in life. God needed him back.”

He tried to think of things Jesse muttered under his breath, musings and anecdotes that his siblings could eventually tattoo on themselves in his memory. He’d search for notes in his backpack from the previous school year, things Jesse wrote down in his shitty handwriting, that Zayn could hold onto. Last words, jokes, wonderful observations about the world that he needed to leave behind because his destiny was to die young. _Only the good die young._

But Zayn always came up short. Jesse Klein was _not_ an angel. He was a devil if Zayn ever saw one. Messy and dirty. A little cruel, when he wanted to be. Tried to act big and tough, even though he was barely a month over thirteen. He used to make Zayn feel stupid, and he _knew_ he did it, but he never stopped. He had to be reminded to brush his teeth before bed, purposefully shoved his brother down a flight of stairs once, farted on various girls in their class any time he scurried past their desks.

Jesse wasn’t perfect and it infuriated Zayn for years, whenever someone tried to insinuate that he was.

But Jesse wasn’t supposed to be murdered. It wasn’t his fate at all, it wasn’t written in the stars. He should’ve had more time to grow up, to develop and evolve and mature. He should’ve had years to apologize to people when he was a brat to them as a kid, to learn to drive, to try harder at math because Zayn knew he was good with numbers even when he didn’t want to admit it. He deserved the chance to graduate and get married and have kids.

Destiny should’ve had a chance, too.

Zayn sniffs and wipes his eyes on the hood of his sweatshirt, embarrassed even though he’s alone on his deserted street. Too early on a Saturday, too chilly for any of his nameless neighbors to be outside. It’s just Zayn, with his depressing thoughts about a dead kid and a dead girl. He hangs his head and rests his eyes against his palms.

Maybe it’s a defense mechanism, to think about the dead ones, instead of thinking about himself, his case, the person who knows him and wants to hurt him.

It’s certainly working.

“Thought I’d return the favor,” comes the voice.

Zayn almost jumps straight up into the air, his hand flying to his hip even though his gun is inside. He falls back into the metal hand railing to his right and sees Harry Styles come into view. He hears a _beep beep_ from the black Jeep across the street, locking itself, in front of the odd shaped grey house with the shitty shutters and shitty garden.

“Jesus Christ,” Zayn whispers, holding a hand to his chest.

He shakes his head, at a loss. _You were fucking waiting for me to come outside. How long did you watch me sit here?_

Harry has his hair up again. He’s in jeans, a ridiculous fucking flamingo shirt, and a wool-lined coat. Smiling. Like it’s totally normal to be strolling up Zayn’s walkway, holding a pastry bag and a tray with two coffees.

“I mean, if you’re going to follow me, I thought I could follow you back,” he says with a wink, sitting down with Zayn on the top step.

Zayn’s jaw quite literally drops. He blinks six times to adjust his bleary, blood shot eyes to see if this is actually happening.

“That was a joke,” Harry mumbles, schooling his face to be more serious.

“Harry, what are you doing here?”

“I brought you coffee and donuts.”

“What?”

“You’re a cop. Don’t all cops like coffee and donuts?” Harry says with a half smirk, handing the food over. Zayn frowns at the gesture, his hands barely holding onto the warm bag. It’s not possible, for the lead suspect in his murder case to be bringing him breakfast. It’s just not. _How did you find me?_

Harry must read his expression.

“It’s not exactly hard to Google someone’s address,” he says, before taking a sip of his coffee and looking out towards the houses across the street, without a care in the world.

“What the _fuck_ ,” Zayn hisses, turning fully towards him so he can tell him off.

“Relax.”

“Relax? You’re telling me to _relax?_ I should… I could – I could arrest you. I could…”

Harry just smiles. The fucking sociopath, with his perfect teeth and unblinking eyes, smiles.

Zayn should punch him in the face. He should scream and tear into him. But the universe does hate Zayn Malik because without telling it to, his face falls. He literally feels his eyeballs aching in their sockets, the muscles of his face too tired to scream or move his mouth correctly. That thing happens where everything starts to shut down: his shoulders fall, his stomach clenches, and he’s reminded again that he’s some sort of android robot without emotion. Powering down.

Harry fucking Styles must see it, must see the light leave Zayn’s eyes. He moves an inch closer, the chilly March air making him a fucking moron apparently, so they can share body heat. If Zayn could open his eyes again or even breathe without fainting, he’d move away.

But instead his hands just continue to hold the bag of donuts, barely, as his head falls. He’s exhausted.

“You look stressed,” Harry says quietly, their heads close.

“I am,” Zayn mutters into his own chest.

“The real reason I’m here is to say that I didn’t do it. Again. I’m serious, Zayn. I did not kill Destiny.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“I know.”

They sit in silence for a few minutes, the only sounds around them being a few birds waking up to chirp their heads off, a door to their right opening to get the newspaper, the crinkling of the bag as Harry takes it and eats all of the donuts.

Still unable to move, Zayn keeps his head down, his eyes closed, to conserve some energy. To suppress and ignore the fact that he’s sitting next to Harry. _You found me, you came to my home, you’re a fucking psycho, you killed her, I’m going to prove it._

Just then, Zayn feels it. An arm around his back, a hand squeezing the muscle of his shoulder, applying pressure to ease him somewhat. _It’s wrong, it’s so wrong, not here, not Harry._ Zayn’s eyes fly open and he immediately powers back on, shoving himself over to the right, to get away.

Harry quickly pulls his hand back into his lap.

Something in Zayn snaps.

“You need to go,” he says, pointing to Harry’s car.

The neighbors have started to wake up. Zayn sees a curtain flutter across the street. He hears another door open for someone to go for a morning run. Zayn doesn't want any of them to see this.

“Okay,” Harry mumbles.

“Go.”

“I don’t exactly have a home anymore,” Harry says in a rush as he stands, hands wringing, suddenly not so suave or flirty. “I just… Niall had to get out. He moved in with his girlfriend. Ellen is gone, Dennis is gone, it’s all empty and weird and I’m… I have to get the rest of my stuff. But the floor... it's... I don’t know where to go. I don’t… I can’t afford anywhere else.”

Zayn wants to close his eyes again and rest a bit, but he doesn’t. He can’t. He just stares at Harry right in front of him. It all seems so quiet and still. It’s like Harry blocks it all out, all the visuals and sounds around them. He obscures everything.

When Zayn doesn’t say anything, Harry mumbles, “I know that’s not your problem. And I know it’s shitty to think about myself when Destiny’s just _died_. But… I don’t know.”

Zayn won’t feel sorry for him. _You’re still a liar. I felt it. I knew it then, and I know it now._

“Go,” he repeats himself.

Harry doesn’t say anything else. He nods, turns, and heads towards the Jeep.

Zayn watches him pull away and then immediately goes back inside, so he isn’t tempted to smoke again.

 

\---

_March 21, 2019  
8:48 am_

Harry left Zayn one of the coffees. Just left it sitting there in the tray, piping hot, steam visible.

So fuck it, Zayn brought it inside. He sits at his kitchen table and hunches over it to feel the dying warmth of it against his lips, wondering how much better life would be if Harry left his own coffee cup behind. All that perfect saliva at Zayn’s mercy, to bag and take to the lab, CJ be damned. It would’ve made his job a lot easier. Just test it and be done with it, prove that Harry was in Destiny’s room at some point, that they had something going on.

The knock at the door startles him, but only just. If Harry Styles The Murderer can show up any goddamn time he wants to, who’s to say another killer won’t come calling?

It’s Lexi.

Of course it’s Lexi, Zayn thinks with a sigh, letting her in. She must be on her way out to a brunch or other get together with girl friends, her black hair curled and bouncing, wearing a jean jacket and light pink dress that cuts above her knees.

They don’t speak as they head to the couch, to settle together. Lex likes to play with his hair, says it’s so thick and beautiful. “Runs through my fingers like silk,” she said once. Zayn hates to be babied, to be soothed or comforted. And yet Lex gets away with it. Zayn lets her. And he’s never sure why.

“So were you going to tell me?” she says quietly, leaning into Zayn so he can feel her breast against his side.

He doesn’t respond right away, just inhales the steam from the Styrofoam coffee cup. Keeps his eyes closed. Pretends not to feel her breast.

Finally he says, “Tell you what?”

“That you have a boyfriend.”

She says it against his cheek, he can feel her teeth as she forms the words. He’s caught off guard, but only because his first thought was _I heard my best friend get murdered once, why, how did you know?_ But she wouldn’t know, because no one knows.

She pulls his hair to get him to talk.

“I don’t have a boyfriend.”

“So who was outside with you this morning? The boy with you on the steps?” she says as Zayn sighs, moving the coffee to the arm of the couch. Reading his expression, she adds, "You didn't exactly hide it. Anyone could've seen."

He glances at her.

“No one.”

“Didn’t look like no one,” she says quietly, swinging a leg over his lap so that she rests on his thighs and he's forced to look at her. The movement pushes her dress up around her waist. Not wearing anything underneath it. “Did he stay over last night? Did you fuck him?”

“Lex,” Zayn tries to warn her, like he always does, when it’s too overwhelming to think about a warm body when all his brain should be focusing on are cold, dead ones. The Destinys of the world.

“He had his arm around you,” she moves in so that they’re chest to chest, biting at his ear. “He likes you.”

“No he doesn’t.”

“You must not know, babe,” she whispers, grinding down on his lap.

“Know what?” Zayn hisses, his dick getting hard even though he wishes it wouldn’t.

“What a person looks like when they’re into Zayn Malik. The look in their eyes. The face they get. It’s like awe and amazement. Like you just did a magic trick, like _you_ were the magic.”

She leans back to smile at him warmly. Zayn can only blink in response. Lexi loves to play up the sexy act, to push him. Her husband must not be home this weekend, for her to be this brazen, to come over when the sun is up. She grabs his face and kisses him deeply, their tongues hot and insistent, pushing.

When she sinks down onto his cock thirty seconds later, it’s with a sigh. Zayn grips her by the hips, his lip between his teeth, and knows she gets off on the fact that they’re not together. She has a husband and now apparently Zayn has a boyfriend, but she’s _wet_ for it, and he fucks up into her like she’s oxygen. She likes that she can take care of Zayn, without ever having to cook him dinner or return a text or learn his parents’ birthdays.

He furrows his brow, starting to sweat, both of them completely clothed.

_Maybe that’s why I do it too. Fucking a married woman is a hell of a lot easier than falling for a cute boy like I did when I was thirteen, a boy with sandy hair and warm brown eyes, a boy who could die die die die._

Like so many times recently, Zayn slips under after coming in her fist. He’s out like a light before she’s gone.

 

_\---_

_March 21, 2019  
11:45 am_

Nothing has added up. It’s infuriating and perplexing to Zayn because he’s had so many open-and-shut cases throughout his career as a detective. When he was a uniformed cop watching from the sidelines, he saw his share of crimes that went unsolved. He saw the detectives in his old precinct pace back and forth, their hair a mess, their eyes red from lack of sleep, from _nothing, still nothing, no leads, what do we do?_

As a junior, he was asked by old, weary lead detectives to move boxes of files and evidence down to Records and storage, where they still sit cold. Unsolved and moved to the basement, as more cases came in, as more druggies showed up on river banks and bangers shot each other out. It prepared him for his own unsolved cases, where he tried and tried, but eventually had to let them go, when new blood was spilled across the city. There's always more blood.

But this one is different. It's closer. It hurts more. And none of it makes any fucking sense.

Even though it ached to stand up, like one of his organs was dying inside his chest, he had to come back, he had to step through that front door. Zayn paces the old Klein living room, thumbnail between his teeth, thinking it over as CJ watches from the chair by the fireplace. He pulls his hoodie up over his head to block out some of the sunlight, feeling very much like a vampire who should be curled up in a coffin somewhere. Asleep. Or maybe dead.

 _Nothing_ makes sense.

Why would Harry kill Destiny? What purpose did it serve? The only reason he would kill her is to get at Zayn. He did it for a reason, in the dead of night, right where Jesse was stabbed and died. He placed her body in the exact same position, which means he not only knew of Jesse’s case, but knew how to fucking place her arms. _How?_ How did he know the case? Was he around then? Was he a childhood friend Zayn somehow forgot or blocked out? _Do I know you somehow? How long have you known me?_

CJ shifts his weight uncomfortably and Zayn ignores him, his eyes bouncing across the old wood of the staircase, the same peeling wallpaper he remembers as a kid, the cracks in the baseboards.

Harry must have his reasons. He’s a liar, Zayn knows it in his gut that Harry is lying. He followed Zayn, came to his fucking house, is practically screaming at Zayn to call him on his shit. But Zayn furiously made notes over night when he couldn’t sleep: ways he’s been a good person since Jesse died, the times he tried to make up for it. He never wanted to hurt anyone, never got too close so he wouldn’t be tempted to, never spent the night at friend’s house ever again, in case he fell asleep and missed something. He sends his parents birthday presents and stops his car if he sees a squirrel trying to cross the street. He's nice, sort of.

That didn’t help or solve anything, so then he went over all of the cases he’s been involved in, other acts of violence that he’s seen up close, especially the unsolved ones he couldn’t piece together. He went all the way back to his first case along the river, went over each one and tried to place Harry there, somewhere, as a witness or a friend of a victim. But he wasn’t anywhere. He was nowhere. A ghost in Zayn’s memory. A wisp of smoke.

Zayn used to trust himself, and could’ve sworn that the first time he ever saw Harry Styles was in the crowd in front of the Klein house two days ago. But now he's not so sure. He doesn't trust his own memories.

So that’s it. That’s all he has: nothing. Zayn has _nothing_.

“Should we…” CJ tries to say.

Zayn waves a hand at him to shut up, thoughts too manic to stop.

“Why did you say you didn’t like the feel of this one?” Zayn turns to him, eyes fierce. He needs to hear it.

“What?”

“In the car. You had talked to Starzak about it. It felt odd, it was off, the _feeling_ inside this house. Tell me why.”

CJ scratches at his jaw and frowns.

“I don’t know, it just felt weird. A girl killed inside her own house, right inside the door, arms placed like that. It was like… mocking, almost. Like, ‘look at her, I put her here for you to see,’” CJ says, easy as that.

Zayn’s heart swells up and then tumbles down inside his chest, bouncing into each dying organ like a pinball.

_I know he left her here for me. I know this is my fault somehow._

Zayn groans and grabs at his hair. It still doesn’t tell him why. And if Harry did do it, why would he be dumb enough to come to his house? To show up on Zayn’s steps, joking about tailing each other, offering fucking breakfast?

“Zayn, tell me where your head’s at,” CJ tries, palms up. The badge around his neck catches in the light. It hurts Zayn’s tired eyes so he pulls the hoodie down further and closes them. He eventually comes to sit down on the couch.

“I can’t… I – I don’t know what to do. We checked his background, Ceej. He’s clean. We looked into his history, we know he’s from here, his parents are here, he’s a shitty bar singer, he looks harmless on paper. I checked – He just…”

“Don’t kill me for saying this, but… maybe it really was just... wrong-place-wrong-time?” CJ offers.

“No.”

“No?”

“He’s lying. I know he’s lying about something. I…” Zayn groans and puts his face in his hands. _Am I losing my touch? Am I losing it? When I looked him in the eye and only saw guilt, was I crazy? Am I fucking crazy?_

CJ exhales and they both know they’re thinking the same thing. A reporter called the station earlier to ask for a comment on the South O murder, if the young woman who died on South 32nd had any leads in her case. The call was directed to Zayn, who didn’t answer his phone because he was balls deep in his neighbor, so then it went to CJ. He’s smart and was taught well, to give the basic answer: “We may have a person of interest, but no charges have been filed. We don’t have any further details at this time.”

And that will be the last anyone ever asks about it. The paper won’t call, Mulcahy won’t ask, and by next week, another dead kid with track marks on their arm will take up their time.

They’re at the end of the line. There isn’t anywhere else to go, there aren’t any other avenues to follow. Zayn won’t be that detective from a true life crime show, with a white board full of photos, red string connecting dots, mug shots of potential suspects to smack his hand at for a room full of cops to take notes on. No leads, no murder weapon, no probable cause.

This is it. The house is practically empty, Destiny's room boxed up by a family friend. Her file is filled out, the photos in order, the fraction of evidence they have laid bare, the reports from each department have come in. This is it.

Harry Styles is it.

Zayn looks up from his hands, eyes fierce once more.

“I want him.”

It's CJ's turn to groan.

“But he’s not technically a suspect, Zayn,” CJ says more measured, leaning forward with his eyes wide. “I know you have a hunch. And yeah, he was here. But there is zero evidence tying him to this. The report says the DNA on the sheets isn’t fresh, not from the night she died. Harry was just… here. That’s all we have. We cannot charge him and you know that. We can’t force him to give up DNA, not without probable cause. You can’t keep following him, you can’t keep…”

Zayn’s own words ring in his head, over and over, blocking CJ out.

_I want him I want him I want him I want him._

Zayn blinks, everything around him a little blurry, as he interrupts to say, “I don’t care. I want an eyewitness. I want evidence. I want that fucker’s spit.”

CJ stares. At a loss.

“Let’s go,” Zayn finishes, standing up. There's nothing left for him here. He holds a hand to the gun strapped to his waist, the move his old partner taught him, to make himself feel more aligned. To feel useful. In charge.

CJ follows him to the car because he always does, no questions asked.

Zayn doesn't look back at the house.

 

\---

_March 21, 2019  
11:07 am_

Zayn’s hand started to shake on the drive over, but CJ pretended not to notice. He kept his eyes on the road and let Zayn huff and puff next to him, scribbling notes in his folio like a mad man, his handwriting barely legible. He didn’t comment on it or ask if Zayn has had anything to eat yet.

The shaking is probably harder to ignore now, as Zayn stands up from the small red couch in the corner of the strip club, once he’s finally made eye contact with Rayna. The folio and phone in Zayn’s right hand look about seconds from tumbling to the sticky, unpolished floor as she makes her way to them.

“Detectives,” Rayna says sweetly, batting her eyes.

Her facial expression hasn’t yet switched over from sultry dancer to helpful witness. They're still out on the floor, after all. Customers could see. CJ very deliberately looks up and over her shoulder so he won’t stare at her naked form.

“I need to ask you a few questions,” Zayn says, getting right to it.

She nods like she knew they’d come back eventually, and leads them back through the club on alarmingly high platforms, weaving towards a changing room. Both men hesitate to step behind the curtains, until Rayna reaches a hand through and grips Zayn by the wrist.

“All clear,” she says as they follow her. “We’re decent.”

CJ coughs like he’s choking on his own spit when she bends over to grab a robe draped near the mirrors. Only two other girls in robes occupy the space, rubbing oil on their legs, getting ready to hit the stage. They don’t even look over at the strange men in the private area, either too preoccupied or too bored to give a shit.

“Did you find him?” Rayna asks as she ties the robe, turning to Zayn. “The guy who kept coming in? I haven’t seen him again, and I swear I’ve been looking.”

“We appreciate that,” Zayn nods, lifting up his phone in his shaking hand.

CJ’s face has gone completely red as he shifts awkwardly and crosses his arms. No longer convinced of Harry’s involvement, and embarrassed by their current whereabouts, Zayn should just roll his eyes and send him back to the car.

“Have you seen this man before?” Zayn says instead, stepping towards Rayna, who has thankfully kicked off the heels and stands at his height again.

He holds up his phone, with a picture he found through Google of Harry on stage. It’s a close up of him looking into a crowd of people. He’s smiling like he just saw the second coming of Christ, beautiful and effervescent. Joyful. Big eyes, big teeth, dimples.

Rayna leans in and squints, like she needs a pair of glasses.

“Well, he’s… no, I haven't. I would’ve remembered that face.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah, that’s not the guy who’s been coming here for Destiny.”

“Rayna, are you _sure?_ Look again,” Zayn says desperately, the phone jostling in his hand almost violently. He shoves it closer to her face.

Rayna, just as smart as Zayn pegged her from the very beginning, moves away from his pushy, aggressive stance. Dancers don’t let men get into their personal space unless they say so. Zayn feels a flush to his neck, as he drops the phone and has to hurry to pick it up.

She eyes him a bit, before heading towards a large wall of shoddily installed closet doors, each one slightly bigger than a high school locker.

“I’m sure,” she nods, opening a door to rifle through her purse. “I’m sorry, detective. But that’s not the guy I saw.”

Zayn exhales harshly through his nose, pissed and yet again at a stalemate in this fucking case.Even though it's not Rayna's fault, he can't help but think y _ou can't give me any defining features of the man who came to watch Destiny, but you can say for sure that it's not Harry. Perfect. Great._

He can practically _feel_ the words running through CJ’s head, about moving on to someone else, forgetting Harry, looking through the case file again for something they may have missed.

Suddenly CJ comes from around Zayn, his brow furrowed.

“Wait, do you all have space for your things?” he says, pointing to the various closet doors.

“Of course we do, babe,” she says with a small smile, lifting a pair of black-framed glasses to her face. She immediately looks older, her makeup not as harsh.

It hits Zayn, what CJ is getting at. The manager hadn't shown them this space, they didn't think to ask.

“Did Destiny? Any belongings?” he asks, slapping CJ on the arm excitedly.

It hits Rayna then as well, as she eagerly jumps up and down. Still loving to be useful, she hurries towards the far end of the closet space.

“She was still so new, and didn’t keep much here, so I didn’t even think to mention it,” Rayna practically yells, “but this is Destiny’s. See, this one right here!”

Zayn moves CJ out of the way, to get there first. Before he can wonder if he should have gloves on, Rayna throws open the door herself, smacking the handle into the wall. Zayn deflates slightly, when he sees that Rayna was right: not much to see. It’s a small closet space, with enough room for a few outfits, and a small end table with two drawers.

On the floor, a lone pair of flip-flops. Two hangers, one holding a dress and the other a bikini top. Sticking out of a drawer, one bra insert, some plastic thing that looks like a chicken breast. The other is empty.

And on the table, a vase full of dead, dried white roses.

Zayn blinks, trying to focus on the petals.

Before he can think better of it, before CJ can scoff about his bare hand, Zayn reaches for the little piece of paper tied to the vase. He realizes that it’s a ripped-off piece of a state map, blue and green patches showing water and national park, a blue line for Interstate 80. He turns it around to see if there’s a message.

No words. Just a drawing.

An artsy hand-drawn heart, in red pen.

Zayn moves back from the closet and knocks into CJ, who knocks in Rayna. Zayn apologizes to both of them, barely, before scratching at his temple with his left hand, which is now also shaking.

“She definitely had a boyfriend,” Zayn nods.

“But…” CJ frowns.

“Not just some creepy guy coming to watch her dance a few days a week that she ignored or blew off. But someone special to her. Someone who kept coming back, who made her feel good. Who gave her flowers. Lots and lots of flowers.”

CJ crosses his arms, to give it a think.

“Roses in her room. Roses here. She had that little heart drawing as the background on her phone,” Zayn gestures to the card.

Zayn holds up the closed folio in his hand, to stare through it, to the notes he’s been taking. The little notions about a young girl he’s been trying to collect, to learn about her, to learn about who would hurt her, to hurt him.

_Young, easily manipulated, sweet._

_Boyfriend. Male. Meeting up? Letting him in?_

_Takes care of people. Who was she taking care of after work?  
_

_Lonely._

CJ moves Rayna away, thanking her, since they both know they should consider the contents and space as evidence. Zayn stares into the little closet Destiny had for herself, where she must’ve kept her purse and glasses as she danced on stage for the strange men who go to strip clubs when the sun is still up.

It starts to take shape in Zayn’s head, what might have happened. Destiny, the young girl from Valentine with a head full of dreams about the big city. Finding love, finding adventure outside of a farm town with only two mile markers. She found a boarding house to stay in, some cheap thing in South O, where a smart, handsome sociopath caught a whiff.

Maybe Harry fixated on her. Maybe he sweet talked her just enough to keep her wanting more, to slide in and out of her bed whenever he pleased, whenever he felt like getting off. Harry Styles, all swagger and sex up on those shitty Midwest stages, smirking at all the pretty people in the crowd and knowing he could get his dick wet whenever he wanted to, at home.

But Destiny got cut off by her parents, soon desperate for money. Maybe the club wasn’t ideal, but maybe it wasn’t so bad. Everyone said she was sweet, cared for the other girls. Nice. Wished all the girls well, whenever she left for the night.

Maybe it was even better when he showed up. Some random man wearing all black, with eyes only for her. Made her feel good, handed her flowers, made her feel less lonely. Maybe it got intense. Maybe she forgot all about Harry Styles.

Maybe it got serious. Destiny eventually got herself a boyfriend, with the man who liked her enough to give her bouquets of roses. Must’ve pissed Harry off something good. Maybe he saw the signs, the flowers in her room, the drawn hearts, the stars in her eyes whenever she got home from work. Maybe it made him furious, to be forgotten, tossed away like he tossed everyone else.

Maybe he saw Destiny that night, going to let another guy into their house, and something snapped.

So he killed her. Harry stabbed her in the chest and abdomen with a knife he had more than enough time to hide. She wanted someone else, so in that moment, Harry wanted her dead.

Zayn blinks, after staring at Destiny’s lonely flip-flops for too long. He’s sweating. His hands shake even harder as it dawns on him that maybe he can pin this on Harry after all. Maybe this is it.

But then suddenly, it feels like a bucket of ice upends over Zayn’s head, water dripping down his spine under his shirt. He shivers until he feels it in his toes, his eyes wide.

And isn’t it just like Jesse to douse him, whispering something like, _not so fast Z, don’t get ahead of yourself._

Jesse is right of course, because it still doesn’t make sense. Whoever killed Destiny did it too perfectly, too precisely, to match Jesse’s murder. It’s not a coincidence. Whoever did it, did it because Zayn Malik would get called in as the lead detective, and have to see another young victim laying on that same floor. And if it was Harry, where would that leave the club boyfriend? Who did Rayna see all those nights with Destiny? Where did he go? And why isn't he in Destiny's phone? Why did he know to hide himself?

CJ pats at Zayn’s shoulder to move him, so he can take pictures of the closet and bag up the card from the vase. Zayn lets him take the lead, and hangs back. Before they go, Rayna shakes his hand.

As they walk to the car, Zayn must give it all away. It must write itself across his forehead in bright red ink, what his next step should to be. What he wants to go do. They both open the doors to their car, but neither actually enter it. In the warm March sunshine, as cars zoom to and from the airport only yards away from the club parking lot, CJ must read the red ink. He gives Zayn a look. A very serious look.

“It’s not Harry Styles, Zayn,” he says simply, arms up on the hood of the car.

“But – ”

“No ‘but.’ That’s it. Our only witness has said it wasn’t him. He's not the guy from the club.”

Zayn opens his mouth to argue.

“We just got a lead,” CJ cuts him off before he starts. “The man from the strip club, the one we have witnesses for, may have sent Destiny flowers. I will check with local flower shops, I’ll call every florist in this city, to see if any flowers were delivered to Destiny Houthakker, either here or at the house. _That_ is our good news, our takeaway here.”

Zayn nods and looks down at his hands, defeated. CJ is right. This is a new lead. A good one.

So he gets in the car and listens to CJ’s theories about strange men and how they fixate on exotic dancers because they represent the very basic, primal instincts a person can have: we all want an attractive mate, someone who listens, who takes care of us, kisses emotional wounds and doesn’t mind if you get aroused by it.

He listens once they’re at their desks at the station, as CJ starts making calls to Tech, for anything else in her computer or phone related to flowers. CJ rambles about the lists he needs to make, of florists and any other businesses that can charge for floral arrangements. He says something like, _you think we should check with the grocery stores, too? There’s a Hy-Vee close by, they have flowers. But I suppose they don’t deliver them, so that might not do us any good…_

But Zayn doesn’t listen. He looks down at his open folio and sees that he’s been writing _HARRY_ over and over in one of the margins.

_Maybe I’m the one who’s snapped. Maybe I’m the one with the fixation. He’s lying, he’s a liar, I know it, I saw it._

_Harry Styles is a liar._

_Liar liar liar liar liar liar._

_\---_

 

_March 21, 2019  
10:54 pm_

Zayn follows Harry to Slowdown, another venue on 14th Street. It’s not even two miles away from Spearmint Rhino, literally a four-minute drive.

It’s hard to admit to himself that he’s glad for another gig night of Harry’s, but he is. Instead of being alone with two identical case files at home, he’s here. He’s sitting at a bar like he did the night before, face hidden, surrounded by noise.

For once it’s better than silence.

As the crowd gets denser, as more people press into one another, Zayn relishes in the company. Wired, jolted awake with more coffee, thrumming with energy he can’t seem to get rid of. _Harry Harry Harry Harry._ People laughing at jokes, girls kissing their boyfriends, a few little groups out celebrating birthdays. A girl smiles at him from the other end of the bar. A guy not so subtly presses a hand over his lower back as he passes to find someone.

This time he orders a beer. An actual tapped beer, with foam sliding down the glass, getting all over his fingers. It’s not enough to get him drunk, or even take the edge off. But it’s one. It’s something.

Zayn’s not sure why he wants to hold something other than a cigarette tonight, but he does.

Harry doesn’t even get through the first verse of the first song before his eyes scan the bar from right to left. They lock eyes as Zayn takes a sip. His shirt tonight is see-through, his tattoos black and seared into Zayn’s dried up eyeballs. A bead of sweat drips down his exposed chest and Zayn hates himself for watching its trek.

This bar is much bigger than Toad’s, two levels worth. It's darker too, full of swaying bodies on the dance floor and outliers near the walls, probably exchanging drugs and addresses to find more drugs. Zayn made sure to leave his badge and gun at home, so none of them know to keep it hidden from the cop among them. No one knows who he is, except for Harry.

Harry sings to him. He literally kicks a foot up onto a monitor speaker, leans down on his forearm on his knee, and sings out to him over the crowd, like he’s trying to send Zayn a message. He doesn’t smile as much, Zayn notes. Not tonight. He sings a Bon Jovi cover and practically fucks the microphone with his mouth. Ridiculously pink lips, hair tangled around his shoulders, singing like it’s the only thing he was meant to do.

Zayn can’t stop staring at his mouth and Harry won’t stop shoving his dick out towards the people dancing below him.

Eventually, over two songs later, he snaps out of it. He jerks his head away from looking up at Harry on stage, and he knows he has to go home. CJ would hate to see him like this, grasping for straws, chasing after a man he can't figure out. As he finishes his beer, he gives Harry one last look and slips off the stool. With unsteady feet, he makes his way out of the bar. Away from Harry. There’s nothing else to learn here, nothing else to gain. He followed Harry once he left the station at six. All Harry did was go a dry cleaner’s and then disappear into his hotel while Zayn sat in the car and tried not to fall asleep. Nothing interesting. Nothing to make notes about.

Zayn’s phone buzzes in his pocket, but he ignores it. He can’t deal with CJ or his mother at the moment, not after he has to leave a bar with alcohol on his tongue and his cock hard in his briefs. He can’t think about any of it.

When he gets home, he doesn’t park the car behind his building. He parks it out on the street, so Lex can know that he’s home but _not_ sitting on his front steps as an invitation. He can’t deal with her either.

He stumbles up the front walkway and with still-shaking hands, unlocks the door. One beer couldn’t make him feel like this. It’s not the beer itself, but the feeling of it sloshing around in his stomach. Burning hot like lava, mixed with shame. It must be Jesse’s fault, the first person who showed him what a hit of addiction feels like. _Suck it. You just touched it, you didn't smoke. Try it, really try it._

_Do it slow._

_It gets easier._

He was right. Every cigarette Zayn smokes, gets easier. Every drink, every shot, every hit of poison. It all leads back to Jesse, the boy with bare feet and a thirst for independence. He would've taken Zayn with him, Zayn thinks. As he got older and tried more, as he experienced the world, he would've invited Zayn to come too.

That last night, Jesse touched his finger to Zayn's bottom lip and sent Zayn catapulting into the fucking sun.

Zayn wipes at his face and wanders into his room. He promptly collapses on top of his bed, still wearing his hat and boots.

 

\---

_March 22, 2019  
2:35 am_

She likes to play with Zayn's hair. She tugs at the longer strands near his ear, insistently. _Wake up. You’re missing it. You’re missing everything._

Still half asleep, Zayn reaches up and smacks himself in the temple, to get her to stop. His eyes flutter though, message received, to be conscious once more. He’s supposed to be paying attention, something nagging at him, to focus. Wake up.

He hears the knocking coming from his front door.

And that’s it, what the ghosts were warning him about. Zayn swears he hears Jesse whispering something from under his bed, but he can’t be sure.

At the last second, before he moves out of his room and gives himself away with stomping feet, he kicks off his boots. Uses the wood floor to glide on his socks a bit, his head heavy, to go check who it is. He almost grabs his gun.

It’s Harry.

Zayn blinks a few times, his eyeball up at the peephole, because he can’t quite believe it. Twice in one fucking day, he’s looking at Harry Styles on his front steps. If he weren’t so exhausted, completely spent from being alert and mentally engaged for practically three days straight, he would think about his current actions more. He’d put more thought into them. He would definitely grab his gun.

Maybe it’s still the guilty beer he drank earlier, the lava in his stomach, the weight of his eyelids. But he opens the door, to look Harry Styles up and down. Still in his sheer shirt and tight jeans. Hair down. Eyes wide.

“You know,” Zayn starts, voice so quiet in the cool air, it cracks into pieces. “I think you’re the dumbest mother fucker I’ve ever met.”

“I agree,” Harry nods, shoving his hands in his pockets.

Zayn steps aside to let him in. His shoulders sag as he leads Harry into his living room. They sit on the couch in silence, Zayn leaning back with his eyes closed, breathing deeply like he could fall asleep again, just like that. He fucking needs it. He can’t keep doing this.

“You came to see the show again,” Harry notes.

Zayn exhales heavily.

“I didn’t come to ‘see the show,’” he corrects him, crossing his hands over his stomach. “I was following you. Again.”

“I should probably hate that. You following me. Since I didn’t do it, I should hate you. I should… maybe I should report you. For stalking me.”

“Try it,” Zayn says through a yawn. “See what happens.”

Zayn shouldn’t have said that, because it would not look good for him, to have a non-suspect bringing up a stalking charge to his bosses. But Zayn’s body can’t care at the moment, so neither does his brain. He yawns again.

Harry keeps quiet. He doesn’t say anything for a few minutes. But he also doesn’t settle back into the couch like Zayn does; he keeps his back straight and tense. Runs his hands over his knees, over the holes in his jeans. Thinking. Nervous.

“I liked seeing you in the crowd,” he finally says. “I… I looked for you.”

_I liked being in the crowd. You sounded great._

But Zayn doesn’t respond. He pinches at the thin skin of his wrist, angry for this thoughts.

“Do you have any other leads? Do you… Is there anyone else? I didn’t…” Harry says, trying to find words that just aren’t there. Zayn keeps quiet. He keeps his hands crossed.

Jesse raps a knuckle against the kitchen cabinets, but Harry must not hear it. Zayn's had just about enough of the ghosts that follow him around inside this house, and he almost yells out to Jesse to knock it the fuck off.

The noise stops.

_Jesus Christ, thank you._

Harry moves closer.

“Is there anything I can do? To prove that I didn’t do it?” Harry whispers, desperate. Voice wet. Crying like he did when he was first questioned. An eye probably leaking fluid that Zayn can’t quite believe is real.

_Sociopath. Lacking real empathy. Emotionless. FAKE TEARS. MIND GAMES. Dead inside._

But there it is. A gunshot fires in Zayn's brain, waking him up.

It’s his chance. It's Harry's idea, an offer, Harry’s head on a plate.

Zayn turns his head slowly and opens his eyes. Harry is much too close, his bottom lip damp. Zayn can feel his breath dance across his face. Harry's body heat mixes with his own. He notes the way their pinky fingers are now touching on the seat of the couch.

Harry blinks expectantly.

“Yeah, Harry,” Zayn mumbles, looking up through his eyelashes because Harry finds him attractive. _You think I'm hot. You want to watch the magic trick._ “There is something you can do.”

“Anything.”

Before Harry can question his motives, Zayn is up and off the couch heading to his bag in the kitchen. It’s the bag Zayn and CJ should technically always have in the car, especially during investigations. It’s full of on-the-fly supplies: evidence bags, plastic gloves, flash lights, anything a detective would need without CSU there to collect the evidence for themselves.

Harry watches him. He watches Zayn rifle through the contents, before settling back on the couch with something in his hand.

“You didn’t do it?” Zayn challenges.

Harry nods, but his eyes glance down at the plastic transport tube in Zayn’s shaking left hand.

“Prove it. Give me your DNA, voluntarily, and if we happen upon any trace DNA from Destiny’s body, we can rule you out.”

It’s a lie, he still won't let Harry know they already found DNA on the sheets, but it works.

They lock eyes again. Zayn pops the top off the sterile tube, the cotton swab presented for Harry to see it. Harry doesn’t look down again though, doesn’t move, just stares into Zayn's eyes. Doesn't blink. _You want me to believe you. You want me to see you as open and honest, a cute boy sitting on my couch in my darkened house. You want me to kiss you._

“Open your mouth,” Zayn says with a tilt to his head.

Harry startles at the instruction. But he nods.

Slowly, he parts his lips. He even holds his tongue out a bit. Eyes wet once more, breath shallow. Zayn swallows at the sight, and then quickly gets to work: he places the cotton swab inside Harry’s mouth. Rubs it along the inside of his right cheek, over and over, to grab as many cells as he can.

Once he’s snapped the cap back into place, making the evidence sterile and safe for transport, he sets it on the coffee table. They both stare at it.

Zayn feels Harry’s pinky finger touching his again. A shiver runs down his spine, so much so that he has to crack his back and wonder if Jesse can see it. Harry doesn't move and Zayn doesn't either.

"I still can't sleep," Harry admits quietly.

_Me neither. But you can't stay here._

Zayn yawns again, to pretend like he wants to sleep. Alone.

“Have a good night, Zayn,” Harry finishes with a nod, knowing it's a dismissal. “Maybe I’ll see you soon. You have my number.”

Zayn doesn’t refute that. He watches Harry get up and head towards the front door. Harry doesn’t look back, they don’t stare at each other again, and Harry’s hands definitely aren’t shaking the way Zayn’s are.

Three minutes later, still sitting up, he’s asleep.

\---

 

_March 22, 2019  
4:15 am_

Zayn wakes up to three quick knocks on the door, almost sliding clean off the fucking couch. _The couch, I'm on the couch, I'm not in my bed._ He rubs at his eyes as the interaction with Harry comes slamming back into his string of thought, and how when he left, a certain woman might have seen.

_Harry Harry Harry Harry._

_Fuck, I was doing so well. I was actually in a REM cycle. If Alexandria Woodruff is on the other side of this door, I swear to fucking god._

He hurries to retrieve Harry's DNA sample from the table, shoves it in the pocket of his jeans, already mumbling Lex’s name as he walks to the door. He wrenches it open, neck fucked up from the angle he fell asleep on.

But it’s not her. It’s not anyone.

Frowning, Zayn sticks his head out into the cool spring air. Looks left. Looks right. No one. The front walkway is empty, the street is deserted. Was it one of the ghosts playing a trick? Did they know he was missing something?

Right as he begins to shut the door, Zayn’s eye catches on something laying down on the doormat. Suddenly his heart swells up and tumbles down inside his chest cavity, bouncing into each dying organ like a pinball.

It’s a bouquet of delicate, pink roses. Petals still slightly damp. Tied together with brown twine.

A small corner of paper is attached.

Zayn stares at it. A piece ripped off of a road map, featuring a loopy hand-drawn heart.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can find me here:  
> [Twitter](http://twitter.com/thisonegoes/)  
> [Tumblr](http://this-onegoes.tumblr.com/)


	3. DAYS 4 AND 5

**DAY 4**

 

_August 14, 2002  
8:00 am_

Leaning against his dad’s shoulder, as the adrenaline begins to crash like waves into a dock, Zayn notices that his chest feels foggy. It feels full. Too thick, wet, like the fog that sits out over the sprawling golf courses and fancy baseball fields he sees on the way to school in the morning. Jesse hates Zayn’s part of town, says it’s where “Richie Riches” hang out, “think they’re too good for us, so screw them.”

Zayn has to hit himself upside the head, a sharp _slap_ of the hand.

Jesse _said_. Not _says_.

_Said said said said._

Zayn bites his lip so he won’t cry again, his eyes shut tight, as his dad reaches for his hand so he won’t hurt himself. Zayn almost puts up a fight, as the fog in his chest gets thicker, his hands in fists and everything, to push back at his dad’s chest. _Don’t hold me too tight, baba. Don’t be stupid, Zayn._ _He’s not here anymore, he’s dead, he’s gone, he used to say things about rich kids and now he doesn’t, because he’s dead._

They tell him to calm down.

They keep asking so many questions. About Jesse and what they did that night after Jesse’s parents went to bed. If Jesse had done something to make someone mad, if they talked to any strangers recently, if they let anyone inside. Zayn shakes his head, back and forth, keeps his lips shut tight. A man whispers something to another man, about how "the kid" won't cooperate verbally.

_Jesse was loud, he talked all the time, he'd be in here right now talking their ears off._

He breathes. He gives up. Exhausted. Since he has to talk, he instead keeps his eyes closed. He mumbles at first, unsure, his tongue too thick to form the right words. But eventually he feels a gentle kiss on his forehead, smells his mom's perfume, and she asks him to speak a little louder so they can record it all.

He unclenches his fists and gives them answers. He’s a good boy. They were good boys. They didn't make any trouble. No strangers, nobody pissed off at Jesse. He tells them about the cigar box and cigarettes and dried leaves and laughing about school. They were going to have such a good year. They planned out where they’d sit in Mrs. Neidermier’s classroom, where they could doodle and write notes and talk about girls. Jesse laughed so loud, he was always so loud, so flashy and in your face, even when it was the dead of night and his whole family slept right above them.

It’s all so foggy, so dense and thick, and Zayn’s toes feel numb. He doesn't want to be here anymore. _What if my toes turn blue? What if I lose them? I want my bed. I want to go home._

They say a nice woman will come ask him more questions soon, which almost makes him cry all over again. They say she’ll be easier, with questions about smells and feelings and dreams, and all he’ll have to do is keep his eyes closed and tell her what it looked like. To “set the scene and pick it apart, piece by piece.” But he doesn’t want to keep talking. He can’t.

One last question for now, they say.

“Zayn, why didn’t you go sleep in Jesse’s room? Why were you downstairs? Why the sunroom?” the man asks.

His dad holds onto him tighter.

“Jesse liked it there,” Zayn whispers into his chest.

“But you didn’t?”

His mind flashes to the time Jesse made him kiss Emma Hope and how he didn’t really want to do it. But he did it because it made Jesse’s face light up. _I’d do anything he said. I’d go wherever he was. I just wanted to make him smile._

In the end, Zayn’s face floods red and he admits it, embarrassed.

“I hate that room,” he says, as his mother inhales a sharp breath. “The blinds don’t close and anyone can see in. People… someone could watch you, if you let them. Look in at you. See everything.”

Zayn covers his face with his hands, upset at himself for admitting the weakness. It wasn’t supposed to be his issue, blinds and curtains and paranoia about being watched. Like anyone would care about two little boys and their plans for the new school year. It’s so stupid, so dumb, and if Jesse were still here, he’d poke Zayn in the forehead and laugh.

No one calls him on it, but Zayn feels like a baby.

It’s dumb to be afraid of people watching you.

 

\---

 

_March 22, 2019  
9:46 am_

It’s an overcast morning as Zayn makes his way into the apartment out on 168th and Maple, tugging at his too-tight tie.

The call came in an hour earlier, when Zayn and CJ were at their desks, wheels spinning, without anything to do regarding Destiny. They came into the office on a Sunday like they always do whenever they have an open case, but it was useless. CJ went over it all, the research and combing he did regarding the roses. But no luck, no flower deliveries, another dead end. CJ doesn’t have to say it, the fact that they’re heading into a new week, Day 4, without any leads. The case is faltering; it’s getting colder. He repeated the same facts and figures over and over again, to try and see if they’d missed something. Zayn barely heard a word of it, instead focusing on the picture he took with his phone.

Of the flowers left for him. The bouquet of roses laying on its side.

So when the phone rang, when CJ had to literally yell over at Zayn to pay attention, they were grateful for something tangible to do.

CJ took the call, jotted down the address. He looked at Zayn and nodded, as they realized that they had a new case. Another body to focus on, at least for the morning. Zayn hates to think it, but in this instance, it feels like relief to have something else to take on: an adult male found in a bathtub, DOA, suicide.

Sadly, suicides are easy. Open and close. Nothing to be done. Calling in the detectives is just a formality. Once they take a look around the residence, interview the witness, and declare it, they can go back to their desks, back to other work. Or in Destiny’s case, back to nothing.

It’s the first real case since Destiny. Zayn maneuvers his way around the apartment, towards the movement in the bedroom. He catches the eye of Shayla McCabe as she returns her camera to the case on the bed, seeing as how it’s not necessary today. The awkward glance clearly suggests that she expects him to get sick like the last time she saw him. But he doesn’t. He glares at her, annoyed. It’s not like it’s another dead body in the Klein house after all. It’s just another day on the job he’s been handling for years now, thank you.

He stalks past her into the spacious bathroom of the nice, new West O apartment, CJ close behind. Painted beige. New apartments are always painted beige. They can hear a man sobbing from two rooms away, probably into his hands as a uniform awkwardly pats his back. Roommate 1. Brother.

Zayn stands over the tub, careful not to get blood on his shoes.

“Douglas George McDonough,” CJ’s voice drifts over Zayn’s shoulder, reverently as always. “Age thirty-one. Time of death between one and four a.m. Suicide.”

There in the tub is an average looking guy, his bottom half submerged in the water. Zayn takes him in, this new dead body. His head rests in the corner against the wall, like he removed a shampoo bottle to make room, his eyes closed. Serene. Still. All alone, floating in cold, bright red water. Reddish brown hair. A scar on his bicep. A tattoo with a quote on his rib cage. Cold.

Zayn tries to assess the scene before him, as he’s done numerous times since his first case. This time it’s not drugs, like the girl along the river, but it’s still self-inflicted. Douglas sliced open his wrists with a new razor blade, as evidenced by the plastic Bick container in the trashcan near the sink. It must’ve been a quick, level headed decision, for him to cut both arms and then gingerly set the wet blade up on the edge of the tub just so. He left it there, before he could bleed out, blood dripping over and onto the floor. Like he wanted them to know, _sorry for the mess, I did this to myself, see here’s the blade, please don’t make a fuss._

“His brother found him this morning, when he got home from work,” says a cop Zayn’s never met before, as the two techs in the room slow their movements. “Said the note was propped up near the sink. Said it was short. Sad.”

Zayn still doesn’t respond, as the various people in the room bristle at his obvious silence. He’s not taking the lead. He could be daydreaming about his lunch, for all they know. So CJ does what CJ does best. He walks around Zayn and takes charge.

“Do we need to alert anyone?” CJ asks.

“Their dad,” the cop gestures to the brother in the other room. “Says he needs to call his dad.”

“Alright then. Let’s do that.”

Zayn follows. He goes through the motions, grips his folio without ever even opening it. It’s not how he usually likes to work, stone-faced and without empathy for the family involved. But it’s hard. It’s fucking hard, when Zayn can’t stop thinking about Harry and the flowers, while also having to listen to Doug’s brother Peter crying. _I knew he was sad, I fucking knew, but I didn’t know it was like this. I didn’t know it was this bad, I swear. What do I tell my son, what if he had come in with me and saw him? His uncle… my… I didn’t know he was this bad, I didn’t know. I didn’t know._

Zayn blinks robotically and turns away. It’s a good thing a child didn’t have to see it.

It was good back then, too. When it happened, when the whole family heard Zayn screaming, Jesse’s mother thankfully caught the other Klein children before they came rushing down the stairs after their dad. As Zayn wailed the word “dead” from the corner, Jesse’s body so close, the blood between his toes. A scared, innocent child scarred for life.

The rest of the children inside the house never had to see what a dead body looked like. They were lucky. _Children should never have to see the dead._

As Zayn wanders around the apartment, CJ writes it all down, takes a look at the suicide note, and grips Peter by the shoulder as a comforting gesture. Zayn doesn’t see anything out of place, nothing to indicate foul play. He’s told by the coroner on call that there doesn’t seem to be any other marks on the body, besides the deep gashes to the inside of his wrists. So that’s it. It’s like his very first case all over again. Zayn feels like he’s back there, trudging along the Missouri with mud inside his shoes, looking down on that poor girl with the blue skin and dead eyes, OD’d and alone, while her brother cried nearby.

It feels similar now. He can’t help the callous thoughts bumping into each other. _He did it to himself, how sad, how terrible, but hey, it happens._

As he heads back into the living room pressing at his eye sockets, he knows he needs to stop thinking about other cases, Destiny, Harry. He’s too distracted, everyone can see it. _Harry Harry Harry Harry. Roses. Pieces of a map. Hearts. Harry. Harry. Harry. I want him. I want him. I want him._

He rejoins CJ, as he’s telling Peter to calm down while they call his father up in South Dakota.

Zayn can hear the man through the phone pressed to CJ’s ear. More crying, more anguish, also admitting he had no idea his son had fallen so hard. _What am I going to do, how do we move on from this, how do we do anything?_

CJ tries to comfort both men, but can’t seem to get through their grief. They don’t listen.

Zayn almost wants to grab the phone and say, _sir, welcome to the real world, where people die all the fucking time._

But he doesn’t and instead leaves the apartment without looking back at the team doing their jobs.

 

\---

 

_March 22, 2019  
10:44 am_

Back on the road heading to the station, Zayn realizes that he didn’t say one word the entire time. Didn't say hello or shake anyone's hand. If he had waited in the car, his sunglasses tipped down on his nose, no one would've even noticed. He’s grateful to have a good partner, because he knows CJ probably shook the brother’s hand, offered final condolences, waved to the guys wheeling the body towards the elevator. He was a leader.

Zayn offered nothing. No conversation or words of comfort. Nothing.

Suddenly he feels cold, a chill goes over his exposed forearms. _I’m cold. I acted cold towards that poor man, who found his brother swimming in a bathtub of his own blood. I’m better than this._

Zayn should care more. He should show more emotion. He remembers how Luke called him a fucking robot, the first person to call him out on it, and genuinely almost powers down right then and there.

But he couldn’t sleep after the roses showed up, so fucking exhausted, but barely able to sit still. All he did was pace and go over it in his head, like it was running on a loop, the identical dead bodies and Harry Styles and the pieces of map and how it hurts when he doesn’t sleep, like actually, physically _hurts_ in his core, the more drained he becomes.

It’s getting too hard.

He knows CJ is worried for him. He could tell that morning, every time CJ looked over at his furrowed brow, every half hour when he brought Zayn coffee, that there’s something on the tip of his tongue. But the bags under Zayn’s eyes have never looked this bad, he’s never _felt_ this bad, not while working as a detective. CJ must know. Zayn’s mind has been elsewhere for the last few days, and CJ can see it.

Finally, as they round the corner to park behind the station, CJ speaks.

“You were distracted in there."

Zayn doesn’t respond.

“Where were you this morning?”

Zayn looks down as he straightens his tie, avoiding his partner, something he swore he’d never do outright.

“You got in late. You’re never late,” CJ tries again, putting the car in park.

_I know I’m never late. I don’t have a life, what would possibly ever make me late? I wish you would leave me alone, let me go home, it’s Sunday, let me rest and think for five fucking seconds._

He closes his eyes and exhales through his nose. He’s acting like a dick, which isn’t fair. And he needs to tell CJ some form of the truth.

“I made a stop at the lab,” he finally says.

That stills CJ's hands on the steering wheel, his body half-turned in the seat.

“Why?”

“I had a DNA sample to give them. A Rush job. To see if it matches the sheets,” Zayn mumbles, getting out of the car and away from CJ entirely, if he can help it.

He can hear CJ groan and then set off after him, already huffing and puffing angrily.

“And did you get it _legally_ , Zayn?” he hisses. “Did you ask permission? Tell this _random, innocent_ _person_ what you were going to do with it?”

Zayn knows CJ is envisioning his original plan: steal Harry’s beer, a cup, something he put his lips on, to take to the lab. It wouldn’t be illegal per se, if Zayn said that he took it after Harry was done with it, when it was no longer his personal property, in a public place. But it’s not exactly ethical, and CJ’s entire genetic code is made up of _ethics_ and _do the right thing._

“Zayn, what did you _do?_ ” CJ hisses louder, grabbing Zayn by the wrist to turn him around.

A few cops heading into the station look their way. Concerned. Some partners fight, but Zayn and CJ never do.

“He gave it to me,” Zayn hisses back, wrenching his wrist away before they get closer to the building. “He gave it to me, willingly, on his own.”

He purposefully leaves out the part where Harry came and sat with him in his living room in the middle of the night, and how his tongue looked when he opened his mouth, his lips a little wet. He doesn’t tell CJ because apparently Zayn doesn’t tell CJ anything of importance anymore.

CJ puts his hands on his hips.

“Oh really?”

“Yes. He looked me in the eye and asked if he could eliminate himself as a suspect. He opened his fucking mouth and let me. Okay? Is that okay with you?”

CJ’s eyes widen, surprised.

Without an immediate response, Zayn backs away and quietly says his peace. Finally.

“And when it comes back as not a match, I’ll leave it the fuck alone. I’ll leave it alone. I’m… I’m done, Ceej.”

Because he needs to be done. He can’t continue living this way, without any semblance peace. He needs to man up and admit what’s really going on: even when overwhelmed at his own coldness, the dead heart beating in his chest, all he wanted was Harry to be back at his door, asking to stay. Begging to kiss him. He needs to own up to his feelings of remorse, guilt, shock, not just over Destiny’s case, but knowing, once a bunch of flowers arrived, that’s he fucked up this entire thing by focusing on the wrong person. He needs to _show_ CJ that he gets it now, that Harry is the wrong person.

Zayn gives him a look. To say that they're on the same page. And right as CJ nods to accept it, Zayn feels the beginning of a shut down. All systems offline. He presses at his temples, his head aching. _I need to be done. I need to go home. I want him I want him I want him._

CJ blinks.

“I’m going home,” Zayn says. His eyes drift a bit, head a complete daze, too dead on his feet to be standing up, and probably too exhausted to drive himself back to his place at all. “I… I’m sorry for today, I’ll… I need to sleep.”

“Please do. Take a pill if you have to. And eat something with a vitamin in it,” CJ relents, his shoulders sagging, also probably exhausted.

Zayn and CJ both know he won’t follow instructions, so they let it hang in the air between them. CJ reaches a hand out, like he wants to touch Zayn’s arm, comfort him somehow. But he quickly lets it fall.

Zayn ends up heading back towards the parking lot with his body already starting to shut down, ripping at his tie, feeling strangled by it.

He starts his car and almost snaps the key in the ignition. In that moment, he’s reminded of the Bates trial, when he imagined his tie constricting his airway. How he was afraid his lips would turn blue if he didn’t get enough oxygen. He never thought he’d wear a tie again after that day, but look at him now.

He’s also reminded of how everyone said he’d feel better afterwards, finally safe and free.

Zayn hasn’t felt safe or free since their last night together. Since he watched Jesse Klein drift off to sleep.

 

\---

 

_March 22, 2019  
12:10 pm_

When Zayn was young, he used to follow Jesse everywhere. Literally and metaphorically. If Jesse wanted to go run the neighborhood to get away from his siblings, Zayn went. When Jesse showed Zayn how to pierce an ear, with an ice cube, a needle, and an apple slice, Zayn did it. His hands were shaking the entire time, as he shoved the needle through Jesse’s left earlobe, but he did it. Jesse was bored of it only four days later, so he removed Cassie’s hoop and pretended like it didn’t hurt, which Zayn let him have. He let Jesse have everything.

He also followed Jesse whenever he talked about girls, when they were side by side during sleepovers at Zayn’s house, his walls bare of any sexy posters of models sitting on fast cars. Jesse’s favorite. He’d follow along, repeat after Jesse like a fucking parrot: how nice girls smelled and how good their boobs look and how he couldn’t wait to touch one. Zayn let his mind wander alongside Jesse’s, while mentally scolding himself for wanting to hold Jesse’s hand under the covers.

Zayn’s mother used to say that he would’ve followed Jesse Klein off a cliff, if he asked Zayn nicely enough and with a smile. At first it made him angry to hear that. Then it made him blush. Now it just makes him sad.

It’s probably why Zayn smokes so many cigarettes a day now. And it’s definitely why he became a cop. He really did think about joining the Army, like they always said they would do once they turned eighteen, to be brave and fight for the people. Like when they’d sneak down from Zayn’s bedroom and watch “Band of Brothers” on HBO because they figured out the TV’s child lock, side by side on the living room floor with their chins on their hands. They’d be strong and heroic, save America when it was in pieces.

But Zayn never seriously looked into it, once he got older and knew what it actually meant to enlist. It was a place Jesse couldn’t go, a place Zayn couldn’t follow, since Jesse was dead.

It was never a real possibility, once Jesse was gone.

So a detective was the next best thing: helping people, fighting bad guys, accepting the blood and gore as part of a job most people can’t stomach. Zayn accepted it as his life’s purpose, knowing Jesse would’ve approved.

Once he joined the force, once Jesse started whispering to him louder and louder, Zayn let Jesse talk to him from inside the closet or under his bed, on nights he couldn’t sleep. No one ever knew, until one of Luke’s friends said he needed “crazy pills,” when he heard Zayn shushing a leaky pipe. But Luke’s friends were assholes, and they didn’t know ghosts the way Zayn did. How real they are. How they taunt and play. They didn’t know that Jesse liked to fuck with the plumbing when he was bored. And they didn’t know that talking to Jesse, in his head and out loud, helped Zayn process things. It helped him focus on what was happening around him, when he so often forgot to open his eyes. Sure, he can spot details when at a crime scene, can pick it apart, see what others don’t see. But in his actual life, Zayn doesn’t notice much. Unaware. Not unless the ghosts shake him or kiss him awake so he doesn’t miss it.

Today especially, Zayn almost wishes he could follow Jesse for real. Today, his ghosts are loud.

Despite their noise, sensing the next inevitable crash into unconsciousness after a short thirty minute nap, Zayn takes a sip of the water in front of him there at the table, from the shitty plumbing of his kitchen sink, and cracks a slight smile. _See, Jess? I’m brave. I’m a cop. I’m not tired, I’m fine, I’m working. Paying attention. And look, water this time, instead of coffee. I heard you making sounds, so I’m drinking water. Happy?_

The shutters to his kitchen windows snap against the wood frame, so Zayn takes that as a yes.

It also reminds him to glance towards the living room windows that look out onto the street. It’s an old Malik tick, to make sure the window blinds and curtains are closed tight. Zayn swears if he could take a stapler to the dark fabric hanging from the ceiling, to keep them closed permanently, forever, to block the world out, to keep people from looking in, he would. But it’s probably frowned upon. If his mother knew he even considered it, the interior decorator in her would die.

He hears Jesse snort a laugh.

It’s a shame, that all Zayn can think about is Jesse now. He needs to actually work. He should focus on the case, on why someone wants him to feel trapped. And he _does_ feel trapped, inside his little duplex. Just as his mother taught him, along with the windows covered, he has the front door latched. Locked in tight. Safe. There’s a man out in the world who decided to kill an innocent girl, to get to Zayn, and now he’s been left flowers. A gift with a card.

It’s like he can’t help it, as he looks at the windows again, to remind himself _again_ , that they’re closed.

He doesn’t feel safe. He feels thirteen.

The pain behind his right eye throbs especially hard as Zayn sits in his kitchen, the adrenaline ebbing and flowing, the chemicals in his brain screaming at him to really rest this time. But he doesn’t listen, instead turning his attention back to the roses left for him that morning. _Focus, Zayn._

He should’ve put gloves on before touching them. He should’ve taken official pictures of the bouquet on the doormat first thing, the stems tied together, lying on its side, the card attached. But he didn’t think. In his hazy half-awake hysteria, he brought them inside bare handed and threw them across the main room, a few delicate petals strewn across the floor like it was a fucking bridal suite.

It landed on the kitchen table, which was probably Jesse’s doing, That’s where he took the one and only picture on his phone. Ready to be sent to CJ, if he can eventually muster the courage. He blinks at them, the pink petals no longer wet. He has to be still and assess the bundle with a cop’s eye. To turn the card over again and again, heart on one side, plain map on the other.

To wonder where they gift came from.

After the roses showed up, Zayn finally got it. Early that morning as he paced the entire length of his house, as he contemplated even submitting the DNA to the lab, he almost smacked himself upside the head. For being so stupid. He finally understood what CJ knew days ago, without DNA proof: Harry Styles didn’t do it. As his hands were shaking, spilling coffee all over himself, it was like all of the pieces fell into place, tumbling around him like fallen ashes.

Zayn fucked it up. His gut instincts were flawed. He feels it now, that he did _not_ know Harry Styles previously. Harry didn’t know him either. They had definitely never met before.

He wouldn’t be dumb enough to come to Zayn’s apartment if he killed Destiny. He wouldn’t leave an ominous bouquet of flowers on Zayn’s doorstep. He’s not a moron. He wouldn’t implicate himself this way. He wouldn’t enjoy Zayn’s company at his shows, wouldn’t bring him breakfast, wouldn’t want to kiss him. Sociopaths aren’t dumb. They’re resourceful.

Zayn would need a _real reason_ to implicate Harry Styles, the boy he couldn’t stop staring at, while at the crime scene and on stage. If it was any regular suspect, a normal case, he wouldn’t even have followed Harry, lost even more sleep than usual, scratched Harry's name into his folio notes. He would’ve moved on. And he wouldn’t want to kiss Harry just as much.

As far as the case goes, after all they know, there’s no motive. The only reason Harry's DNA ended up in the lab, with a Rush label, was because it was on the way.

Harry didn't do it. He didn't know about Jesse. There's no connection.

But on a personal level, Zayn’s not sure he’s ever felt more of a connection in his entire fucking life.

Jesse sniggers, probably winking, _ooh Zayn, well isn't that poetic._

He sighs and leans his head down into his hand, his brain too heavy to hold up on his neck much longer. The last few days have been an up-and-down roller coaster of manic energy. And that’s exactly what it was, manic. _Mania_ , how fixated Zayn has become on Harry. Something in his gut kept telling him to push, to prod, to follow Harry to the ends of the earth if he had to. But this is the end. The end of the earth, the end of his rope, whatever. All that’s left is a bouquet of flowers and a heavy heart in his chest. Zayn is smart and he knows he should crash soon. He should push and prod Harry right out of his mind for good, now that he’s sure Harry isn’t a suspect. He should let it go, he shouldn’t let thoughts of Harry get intrusive, he shouldn’t think about him at all. He should focus on Destiny and her case, how someone is out there, fucking with him. That's it. That's all.

 _Harry Harry Harry Harry_ , Zayn repeats under his breath and inside his head. Pressing at his temples. Eyes shut tight.

Jesse whispers something quietly right as Zayn feels a ghost twirl a finger through the hair near his neck. _Don’t be stupid, Zayn. Don’t crash. Do I really need to lead you everywhere? Follow along. Look at the scene in front of you._

Zayn cracks an eye open, his finger pushing a page in his notes filled with _Harry Harry Harry, I want him, smiles too much, musician, handsome._

“Yeah, yeah,” Zayn mumbles to Jesse, somewhere in the space of his apartment, “I get it.”

He sighs again and gives up any and all pretense. There’s nothing else he can do regarding the case at that very moment, no roads to follow. It’s getting colder. He wouldn’t be able to sleep even if he tried. The roses taunt him some more, the longer he stares, so he should listen to Jesse. He has the rest of his Sunday at his feet.

He reaches for his phone and begins to type out a text.

 

\---

 

_March 22, 2019  
3:33 pm_

Without putting much thought into it, or realizing how fucked up it is, Zayn makes sure to present himself differently now. He wears tighter jeans, a clean black hoodie, and thick socks his mom sent him for his birthday last year. He perches on his front steps with a cigarette and waits, keeping his eyes down so none of the neighbors come over for a chat. Avoiding and pretending like his life is simple, no stalker, no fucked up case file sitting on his desk.

He thought after texting Harry, the manic episode he’s been living in since Thursday would calm to a near halt. But being outside, alone, sitting on the fucking door mat where the flowers once sat, he knows it’s no use. The bags under his eyes haven’t gotten better and he knows he can’t speak to anyone yet. He hears someone walk by with their dog and his heart rate speeds up, flicking cigarette ash towards the steps. _What if it’s you? Have you finally come for me? What does the map mean? Why the heart? Get it over with already._

He’s saved from the impending panic attack when he hears the engine. He knows it’s Harry coming down the block. He finally looks up and they make eye contact through the front window of the Jeep as Harry smiles a bit. He parks across the street, and then tries to school his face as he makes his way up Zayn’s front walk. Maybe he decided to do it differently too: sweat pants, an oversized grey hoodie, a beanie. Casual. Not Rock Star Harry Styles today. Simpler.

“Fancy meeting you here,” Harry says, plopping down on Zayn’s left like he did the day before. No coffee this time, sadly. He must catch Zayn’s assessing eye, at his empty hands, and laughs with a squawk.

Zayn smiles. Instantly, the manic energy slips away.

Calm. Still.

_I think I needed you here._

As he exhales cigarette smoke through his nose, he tries to offer Harry one from the pack in his pocket. Harry declines, pointing to his lungs. _I remember thinking that once, how my lungs would never be able to handle this. Jesse was such a bastard._

They sit in silence, the sun out in full force. It hits their faces just right, and if Zayn didn’t know any better, it was May instead of March. Harry shuts his eyes and sighs at the warmth, just as ready as any Midwesterner to have summer back again after such a long, harsh winter. Zayn watches him, face tilted towards the sun, his easy going smile. Harry’s cheeks look a little red already and Zayn sort of wants to touch them. Just one finger, maybe.

A minute later, Zayn looks away. It’s like old muscle memory. No matter how many years it’s been, or how many boys he’s fucked around with, he always ends up feeling thirteen at first. _I can’t get caught staring. Not again. Not yet._

Suddenly Harry straightens his back and opens his eyes. It’s like he remembers the last time they spoke, how charged the room was, how he almost cried and Zayn looked straight through him as he swabbed the inside of his mouth. The intensity, the magnetic quality, the way their fingers touched.

How he showed up at Zayn’s place the night before, again, searching for something. Reaching for Zayn.

He exhales a breath and schools his face to be more serious.

“So what’s up?”

Zayn blinks as he stubs out the spent cigarette on the handrail and tosses it towards the bushes under the window. He has to think about how to answer the question. His father always said he liked to take a few seconds to compile his words.

Harry’s patient. He watches in silence, his face laced with a strange emotion Zayn can't quite place.

“I don’t think you killed her,” Zayn finally says. He turns his head so that they’re staring at each other.

Harry exhales like he's relieved and bites at his lip, now just as red as his cheeks.

Zayn twitches at the movement. _Stop that, don't draw blood._ He shakes his head to shut that voice up.

“For you to offer,” Zayn gestures to his mouth, “says a lot. I just… I got so focused. You looked so guilty. Acted it a bit, too. At first. But… I went too far. I followed too close. I - I won’t pursue you anymore.”

Harry blinks.

“That’s what I wanted to say. That I’m done.”

Harry takes a beat, stuffing his hands in the pocket sitting over his dick. Zayn could live in that pocket, he thinks.

“You really believe me, then,” Harry states simply.

“Yes.”

“You think I’m innocent.”

“Yes.”

“That’s… good,” Harry says with a slow smirk. “And you… asked me to come all the way over here, to tell me in person that you _don’t_ think I’m a murderer... and you _don’t_ want to be around me anymore?”

Zayn winces at that, but shrugs.

“I think you wanted to see me,” Harry says matter-of-factly.

Zayn doesn’t nod, and he doesn’t refute it.

Harry moves closer, his leg pressed up against Zayn’s thigh. He keeps it there, makes sure Zayn feels his body heat, the breath on his shoulder. Zayn’s reminded of his notes about Harry. _Smiles too much. Friendly. Sociopath._ And he realizes that Harry isn’t crazy, he’s not devoid of emotion, he’s not playing any sort of game. He’s just… this. The kind of person who knows to Google a home address to bring someone a much needed breakfast, a boy who had a record playing to drown out the noise that night, trying to figure out what to do next in life. He’s a _boy_ , with green eyes and dark brown hair, _not Jesse_ , not anyone who looks like Jesse. He is Harry Styles. Beautiful Harry Styles.

And as screwed as the whole thing is, Zayn leans into it. A little. Makes sure Harry feels it. He knows something is happening, now, in this moment, and he tries to keep his head up. He gives in to the feelings surging through him. _I was drawn to you from the first fucking second we locked eyes, and I can feel it happening over and over. You wouldn’t leave me alone, we followed each other, and now we’re here. I want you. I want you. I want you._

Zayn exhales. They both feel the shift between them.

“I can never talk to you about this case,” Zayn says quietly, like he’s answering a question neither of them had to ask. “Even if she was your roommate, it has to be… separate. You have to be removed from it. I can’t… tell you things.”

“I understand.”

“I can’t…” Zayn mumbles, shaking his head, aware that he’s not just thinking about the case. _I can’t tell you about me, or about him, or about what I didn’t do that night. I’m guilty. I didn’t help._

“I get it,” Harry says as he slowly winds his hands around Zayn’s upper arm. Squeezes the muscle, leans closer as if he wants nothing more than to rest his mouth against the tattoo on Zayn’s neck.

Zayn tenses, the muscle memory not quite kicking in again, to have a boy so close. A _man_ , after so long, someone to touch his lip with a fingertip like all those years ago. But it aches in its familiarity, somewhere deep, as a breath catches in his throat. Being this close, as always, causes Zayn to be as sad as he is happy. And isn’t that a depressing thought.

But it’s like he’s being pushed towards Harry by an unknown force. Like he’s been careening towards Harry since day one.

He doesn’t move away.

Harry must sense the tension rolling off of him, because he doesn’t touch anywhere else. He doesn’t let go of Zayn’s arm, though.

“Do you want to come to my show tonight?” Harry eventually asks, as an elderly couple runs past them in bright orange sweatshirts that say Sweatin’ To The Oldies on the back.

Zayn shouldn’t go. _This shouldn’t be happening. This shouldn’t be anything._

But he nods anyways. And leans half an inch closer, until he feels Harry cheek lay down on his shoulder. Zayn shifts a bit, so he can tentatively move his hand up, to cover Harry’s fingers gripping at his arm.

It’s not much. But it feels like something pretty big.

“This is so fucked up,” Harry ends up whispering.

“It is,” Zayn agrees, inhaling Harry’s scent, the boy he once thought capable of slicing through human flesh like it was as easy as breathing.

_I’ve been fucked up for so long, I don’t even notice it anymore. Harry Harry Harry. You smell so good, I think I could eat you.  
_

As Zayn relaxes and closes his eyes, choosing to forget about the case and the roses and the semi in his boxers, he distinctly hears a window _slam_ shut nearby, slicing through the crisp air.

Like someone was watching and didn’t like what they saw.

 

\---

 

_March 22, 2019  
11:45 pm_

Harry doesn’t go as hard, even when he has a mic stand between his legs and a hand in his hair, like he’s pulling at it during dirty, rough sex with a stranger. He’s focused. Still. The performance isn’t as charged as Zayn has seen the last few nights, Harry more contained within his body. No wild limbs, no jumping up and down, or saying nonsensical things to the crowd to feed off of their laughter.

He stays mostly in one spot throughout the set, smiling at the guitarist, singing into the mic like he’s getting paid more than a couple twenties to be there. When he starts singing a Killers cover, even without eye contact or any sign, it’s like he’s singing right to Zayn at the bar along the far wall.

Zayn grips the edge of the sticky bar in one hand, transfixed even in the midst of his exhaustion. After sifting through both cases again that evening before the show, he can’t stand up much longer and that he should at least sit. He ignores the guy on his right, the same Jesse clone from the other night, who tries again in vain to whisper in his ear. He lies, mumbles something about needing air and moves away.

He drifts closer to the stage. Harry Styles, in a simple grey tshirt, jeans, and gold fucking boots, the light hitting the high points of his cheekbones just right, smiles at him. He sees Zayn fading and doesn’t even acknowledge Zayn’s drooping eyes. He makes sure Zayn can’t look away from the stage, the colored lights shifting around him as he sings at the top of his lungs. It’s like he’s wearing a fucking halo. _And you probably know it, don’t you._

He does.

Harry leans forward a bit, the crowd not paying much attention at the moment. He sings with his eyes closed, bunching the mic cord up in his hand like he’s angry at it.

_“You know you gotta help me out. Don’t you put me on the back burner. You know you gotta help me out. You’re gonna bring yourself down.”_

Despite everything weighing him down, Zayn stays awake and doesn’t blink for the last thirty seconds of the song.

 

\---

 

_March 23, 2019  
1:01 am_

As they pull up to his place, two thoughts run through Zayn’s head as his heart rate picks up. _Did he leave me flowers again? Another piece of a map I can’t decipher? Another heart?_ He angles his head first thing, as they come around the corner, to see if there’s a new present on his front steps.

But it’s empty.

The second thought, and the much more alarming of the two, is along the lines of _I should be scared, I should be more freaked out or upset about this, I should be looking over my shoulder every second of the day, I need to find him before he finds me. I should tell CJ. I should officially connect the case to me._

Zayn feels a shiver go down his spine and has to shake his head like a dog to rid it. He reminds himself to ignore the heavy, negative thoughts. It’s like when he was in high school, when he used to fixate on a specific word and repeat it over and over again, picturing it in his mind. It was before Jesse showed up under his bed, before he had someone to talk to. They made him see a therapist, who told him that pushing away the negative wasn’t _ideal_ , but that if he absolutely had to, to get out of a spiral, all Zayn had to do was find a pleasant word and think it, picture it, until he couldn’t think of anything else. A “happy thought.”

Zayn remembers looking the doctor right in the eye, to ask him if he knew about Zayn’s past at all. About his murdered best friend and how they found him with wet underpants, screaming the word “dead” until he was hoarse. He reveled in the squeamish expression lining the old man’s face, the shift in his questioning.

“Yeah, doc,” Zayn said all those years ago, hair hanging over his unblinking eyes, hands in fists. “I know how to latch to a word just fine.”

But he needs to focus now. He exhales through his mouth and starts to park the car. Even now, he still does it. He has to, he needs to calm down: _Harry Harry Harry Harry._

As if he can read thoughts, Harry looks at him curiously from the passenger seat, but doesn’t say anything.

Once they’re inside and start to settle themselves, Zayn sees Harry coming down from the high. A performance high, Harry called it. He had two vodka sodas on stage and immediately after, smiling and joking with Zayn at the bar about the set. With his band members nearby, they talked about the songs Zayn liked, the songs he hated. Zayn watched Harry with the same discerning eye as before, not quite Detective Zayn, but just as steadfast. Harry was on top of the world while standing at the bar, yelling over the heads of all the people who watched him fuck a mic stand, bright as a burning star. And it’s like he knew Zayn couldn’t stop staring at him, and he liked it. He loved it.

But now, in the low light of Zayn’s living room, he’s quieter. Zayn watches Harry kick off his boots and sink into the couch.

“I don’t have anything to drink,” Zayn admits, as he awkwardly stands near the windows.

“No worries,” Harry says in a low voice, eyelids fluttering like he could sleep for two days. “I’m good, babe.”

Zayn feels like he’s stood behind a startled horse, the word like a swift kick to the center of his chest. _Babe._ He blinks furiously and makes sure the front blinds are closed tight, peeking out of them for only a moment, to look out onto the street. Then he almost rips the curtains off the rod, to keep them shut, to warn Jesse not to flutter them with his breath. _I’ll go get the stapler, you fucker. I swear to god I’ll do it._

The curtains don’t shift, so he nods like he’s won an argument and steps away. When he turns around, Harry is no longer dozing. His eyes are open. Zayn notices how they flick down to the coffee table.

The two file folders now seem to live there. Jesse and Destiny side by side, with a bunch of roses on top.

“Uh,” Zayn starts, as he hurries to shut Destiny’s file and move the flowers. He then shuffles all of the papers and photos together, sure that Harry didn’t see anything about Jesse, but not so sure that all the evidence should be so close. Zayn moves it to the kitchen table and then clumsily moves towards the couch without sitting down.

Harry gives him a lazy sort of smile, like he hands them out for free and doesn’t mind if people throw them away. Like he didn’t even notice the files or flowers, which is polite of him. He gestures to the couch. An invitation.

“Thank you for letting me stay here tonight,” Harry then says gently, shoving his socked feet under Zayn’s thigh right as Zayn tries to shift and get comfortable. It’s the same positions they were in the night before, but now both seem a lot less freaked out by it. Like they’ve truly given in to the mutual attraction. The need to touch.

“Yeah, sure,” Zayn nods.

“I really appreciate it. I… Like I said, I still can’t sleep well and the nights are, like… the hardest.”

“No problem.”

_It’s better than being alone, now that Destiny’s psycho has left me a present._

“Do you do this often?” Harry asks, gesturing between them.

Zayn frowns. _I know I’m an idiot for letting a former suspect stay here, for offering my private space, but we don’t need to say it out loud._

“I mean, it’s my job to help people. I do it every day, I – ”

Harry reaches for Zayn’s hand to pull him closer, stopping him mid-sentence. The same feeling from that morning washes over Zayn as he moves, shifting, hurling towards Harry like he’s a steep waterfall and there’s no way to fight it. Zayn rests under Harry’s arm, both of them tucked towards the end of the tweed couch.

Zayn audibly exhales, relieved to be resting his head. And on Harry’s arm no less, close enough to smell him again, getting his cologne all over his shirt. _Fuck, I've missed cologne. I’ve missed so much._

“No I mean, do you do _this_ often,” Harry says against Zayn’s ear, making him shiver. “Let strange men into your house.”

A small sound from the bathroom tries to get Zayn’s attention. Like maybe one of the ghosts knocked over the toothpaste. But he chooses to quiet everything around him, in his periphery, inside his head, closed in a file folder. And in no time at all, is shifting so he can lay his face against Harry’s chest.

It’s so comfortable, such a foreign position for him to be in after so long without it, he can’t help but inhale Harry’s scent again. _I never let anyone in. It almost killed me once._

“Not in a very long time, no,” Zayn admits to Harry’s pectoral muscle.

It’s a strange thing, for Zayn to be on his own couch with someone who only the day before was the lead suspect in his current murder investigation. The man he’s been taking notes on so religiously, scribbling into margins, obsessing over for hours into the night, now brushes the hair from Zayn’s forehead. It’s also as cliché as ever, for Zayn to feel drowsy and satiated when in the arms of someone else. But as Lex reminded him once, _you’re not special because you fall asleep after sex, or when I’m touching you, because all men are the same, Zayn. Emotionally stunted little boys, I say._

“I’m glad you don’t see me as strange,” Harry interrupts Zayn’s quiet thoughts. “Anymore.”

Zayn smiles at that as his heavy eyelids flutter, at how they’re both probably thinking about the folio in Zayn’s bag. All the musings and observations Zayn compiled about Harry.

But the most pleasant thing of all, besides Harry’s smell and the weight of his arm holding Zayn close to his chest, is his voice. Thick and slow, like melting chocolate. He talks and talks, twisting Zayn’s hair between his fingers, about his music and how happy he is on stage. How much he loves the rush of it, how he can forget everything. He doesn’t even mind doing so many cover songs, since familiar music makes people happy, and how if he ropes a crowd in just right, they seem just as happy to hear the band’s original stuff.

For most of the night, Zayn keeps his hands clasped tight near his own stomach. But the longer Harry talks and keeps his mind off of everything, Zayn eventually shifts down to lay on the couch with his head on Harry’s thighs. Harry clearly likes to fill a silent room, which Zayn can appreciate. That was something Jesse did. Luke, too. Zayn stays awake. He listens and doesn’t have to scold himself for drifting off, with his harsh words or a pinch to his inner wrist, to not to fall asleep. He just… doesn’t. Harry, as always, keeps him totally engaged. Zayn’s pretty sure that even in his semi-catatonic state since seeing Destiny’s body, he could do this all night.

They almost do, too. That is, until Harry reaches his hand down and rests it on Zayn’s hands, rubbing Zayn’s thumb with his own.

“You can go to sleep, you know,” Harry says quietly. “If you want to go to your bed, I’m good here.”

“I’m fine,” Zayn responds just as quietly.

“You look exhausted.”

“That’s sort of my default setting. Tired, I mean. You’ll get used to it,” Zayn says around a yawn.

Harry chuckles a bit, but continues to rub at Zayn’s thumb.

It feels so nice. Soothing. Comforting. Like Harry has to keep touching him somehow, has to connect their fingers, feel the skin he’s been dreaming about for days. Zayn thinks, _I won’t sleep, I can’t, I want to touch, too._

As if to prove himself, Zayn opens his eyes and grabs for Harry’s hand. He keeps it there on his chest, feeling the smooth skin, long fingers, blunt fingernails. Zayn doesn’t study hands up close very often, usually too focused on a person’s handshake grip and facial features. But he remembers when he shook Harry’s hand the week before, and how he felt equally on guard from impending doom and immediately drawn in like he needed to know more.

Harry tilts his head and watches Zayn explore his palm, the rough pads of his fingertips, the way his rogue pinky finger extends further than it should.

“Even my fingers like to break away from the norm,” Harry mumbles.

Zayn snorts a laugh, as he brushes over a small scar on the back of Harry’s hand, near his thumb and forefinger. He rubs at it, the small insignificant scar shaped like a backwards lower-case C.

“I used to call it my ‘waxing crescent moon,’” Harry says, bringing their hands up closer to Zayn’s face so he can inspect it.

“What’s it from?”

“You know, I used to say it was from this time in the seventh grade, when a bunch of us were at this kid Michael Gordon’s house, swimming in his pool. I was trying to be funny and went to push Stephanie Mazur into the water, but she grabbed me at the last minute. So we fell in together, and at the end of the day, before my mom picked me up, we shared a towel and made out under the deck,” Harry says wistfully. “I used to tell kids in our class that Stephanie gave me this scar, that one of her nails scratched me good as we fell in the water together. And any time I went to flirt with her that year, I’d joke that she maimed me for life. Marked me as hers.”

Zayn runs a finger over the raised scar tissue of the crescent moon.

“But,” Harry continues, like he can’t find the right words, “the truth is that I have no idea how I got it. Stephanie didn’t scratch me, and I have no fucking clue why I looked at it and thought, ‘I’ll use it to flirt, pretend it was her.’ No idea. It must’ve happened when I was a baby, before I could remember.”

“Kids are funny like that,” Zayn says. “The way kids make things up to fit their little stories.”

“Exactly. I wanted to tell a story, so I went with it.”

“I used to tell other kids that my cousin competed on ‘American Idol,’” Zayn offers.

Harry squawks a laugh at that, halfheartedly slapping his hand in the center of Zayn’s chest, as Zayn joins him.

“I fucking hated that show,” Zayn _giggles_ with the memory, like he’s thirteen again. “And who would give a shit about my cousin in Cincinnati? Why did I do it? What was the purpose?”

They laugh and laugh, at how dumb they used to be as kids, the other stupid stories they told. The stories other kids told that were clearly bullshit as well. Zayn can’t remember the last time he did this, stayed up all night talking to someone about nothing, touching, holding a hand, not thinking about a case, or dead bodies, or blood between his toes. Back in college, his old roommate Colin sometimes did this. Colin would talk Zayn’s ear off when he was high as a kite, after Zayn decided to stay sober. But it was never like this, not with anyone else. Not even with Jesse, because Zayn knew from an early age that he had to keep parts of himself secret, the voice in his head that skewed just slightly from Jesse. The voice that wanted to touch.

Harry brings Zayn back to the present, when he slowly moves his hand up to brush along Zayn’s stubbled jaw. Delicate. Sweet.

“I don’t think I’ve ever told anyone about that before,” Harry ends up saying in a chuckle. “No one’s ever really asked about it.”

“Just me,” Zayn mumbles, as he moves to kiss Harry’s fingers. _I haven’t spoken about my childhood or what I was like as a kid or how I grew up, in fucking years. And with you, it took about thirty seconds._

Harry grips Zayn by the chin and turns his face up, leaning down like he’s going to kiss him. But then Harry swerves at the last second and presses his mouth to Zayn’s ear instead.

“You’re my first,” he purrs, which earns him a you’re-an-idiot smile from Zayn.

In the moments that follow, Zayn considers the possibility of Harry following him into his bedroom. He can practically see it already: moving from the couch down the short hallway to his room, and sensing Harry watching, aching for it, following quietly. He’d probably lean on the door frame and politely not enter, just look around at Zayn’s sparse furniture, the bare walls, the laundry in the corner. He wouldn’t impose, not until Zayn removed his own shirt and told Harry to get on the bed so he could undo his belt.

Zayn also considers the fact that he’s lost his fucking mind.

“Can I tell you something?” Harry says, jolting Zayn out of his thoughts. _Thank god, because I don’t need an erection right now._

“Yeah.”

“I still… I know we can’t talk about the case, I get that,” he says, chin jutting towards the files over on the table. “But no one will talk about it with me. It’s too heavy, too much. My band mates and friends are too freaked out by it. Niall won’t take my calls. And I just…”

Zayn braces himself because he knows what’s coming. It’s that bubbling emotion that sits right under the surface, still to this day, frothing like an undercurrent beneath his skin. It drives his every waking thought. It’s probably why he hears Jesse, even now after all these years. It’s why he feels the ghosts. Why he can never sleep. _I get it, it happened to me too, confess it and you’ll feel better._

Harry sighs and closes his eyes.

“I feel so fucking guilty,” he admits, his face suddenly scrunched up. “I was… I was just up the fucking stairs. I was right there. I… I should’ve heard it, I should’ve helped her. She was so…”

Zayn sits up abruptly, to get as close to Harry as possible. In such a short time, it’s like the closeness makes sense, feels better, grounding and peaceful. Zayn stares at Harry, trying to send the message without saying too much. They’re recycled words, shit he heard his dad say to him every night for months afterwards, when he was having panic attacks and wetting the bed.

But the words are true and Harry needs someone to say it.

“It wasn’t your fault,” Zayn echoes from Yaser. “There was nothing you could’ve done. Bad people do bad things. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

_I was the bad one. I wish I could tell you it was my fault. Because I did something wrong somewhere along the way, so the man from the club hurt Destiny because of me, not you._

Zayn can feel the intrusive thoughts knocking up against his temples, so he winces slightly. _Harry Harry Harry Harry._

Harry keeps him calm though, keeps him focused. Harry sniffs and nods, as they both recognize the irony of Zayn comforting him, of telling him it’s okay, when Zayn so recently thought the opposite, that Harry was a killer. Zayn reaches a hand up and brushes a tear away. He runs his thumb along Harry’s jaw. Up to his mouth, along his lower lip, which had started to tremble. Harry stares at him, their faces close, and Zayn knows again that Harry wants to kiss him.

Zayn gives in. He’s sure he leans in to kiss Harry first because his life is a cosmic joke, his mouth a glitch in the Matrix, their entire conversation the result of a temporal paradox. He can barely keep his eyes open, his robotic limbs starting to shut down, and he still finds himself holding Harry’s neck as their tongues press together. _I want him I want him I want him._

Harry presses back, his hands in Zayn’s hair. Pulling it. Making it hurt. And Zayn knows he’s living in the moment, is experiencing it for himself in real time, but it still feels like he’s floating above his body, watching it from across the room, like his brain thinks for itself independently: _hey look, there’s Zayn Malik making out with Harry Styles, who would’ve thought, two bystanders to two crimes._

Jesse doesn’t make a sound.

 

\---

 

_March 23, 2019  
3:23 am_

It’s a beautiful sight.

Harry shirtless. Up on knees on the couch, facing the wall, a hand reaching back to grip at Zayn’s hair as Zayn kisses the salty skin of his neck and shoulder. Zayn can’t think, can’t slow his hands, can’t let himself power down, not now. He grips Harry by the hips and grinds up against his ass in those tight fucking jeans he had tucked into ridiculous fucking gold boots earlier.

How they went from Harry’s teary confession of guilt straight to this, Zayn will never know.

It all went so fast. After the kiss, maybe it was inevitable. Maybe they had been building to it all along.

Zayn grunts into Harry’s skin when he pushes his ass back, like he knows Zayn has never been this hard before. Like he knows it's time to get a move on, for Zayn to get him ready for it.

Zayn shivers. It’s been so long for him, the act of having to work for a sexual encounter. With a man again, one hand digging into a hipbone, the other scrambling at a zipper, to say _we both need to be hard for this, come on babe, show me how hard you can get._ Harry groans as Zayn works his fly open, his teeth leaving a mark on his shoulder. Zayn knows he needs to focus. Focus and determination.

With a girl, it’s easy: a beautiful, sensual woman with a plump mouth and the knowledge that she has him wrapped around her finger. Zayn knows it all too well. Like with Lex, all she has to do is get wet, not even overly so. Just wet enough to slide home, to sink down onto his cock and let loose. She can set the pace, can fuck herself down onto him, or be fucked, against a wall, on her back, over a table. She just has to want it, to _say_ it, and it happens in no time at all.

But with a man, it takes work. Actual work, time spent to get ready, to prep, to delay the action. With a man, you have to work up to it. You have to _earn_ it.

Zayn is good with hard work. He’s good with patience and practice, making sure everything is where it’s supposed to be. The decision of who is going to take it, the heady smell of sweat, as breaths hitch, fingers become slick, a muscle stretching. He knows the feeling of intimacy it takes to quite literally open up for someone, a body part so used to _not here, not for this,_ suddenly willing to be entered. The trust between both parties, to make sure it feels right. It’s the intake of oxygen when it’s finally time, when both parties are ready. When enough time has passed, when they fucking _need_ it.

It was like instinct, like they both knew what roles to play, when Harry turned around and kneed his way onto the couch. When he threw his shirt to the floor and Zayn crowded behind him, to press his chest to Harry’s back, before they had to work together as a team to make it good, to make Harry able, to toe the line of anticipation. The eventual words mumbled, _are you good babe, can you take me yet, tell me how it feels, tell me if I should stop._ Zayn can’t catch his breath, just bites at Harry’s neck, like it’s too overwhelming to be back here again, no ghosts or cases or blood. Just two men, hard up for it, carnal and wild.

Right as Zayn starts to think logistics, brain whirring with _I’ll need to go get a condom, I hope I have lube,_ the cogs in his head lock into place too slowly like a two-minutes-too-slow clock. It finally registers.

A sharp knocking at his front door.

Harry hasn’t noticed it yet, the fist in Zayn’s hair as tight as ever, huffing a breath over and over as he realizes he has to help Zayn by pulling his boxers down and over the curve of his ass, not patient enough to get fully undressed.

But Zayn hears it. He stills completely, his entire body suddenly rigid and on guard.

“Shhh,” he hisses, when Harry pushes his bare ass back against Zayn’s still covered dick.

Confused, Harry turns to look over his shoulder, like he’s expecting Zayn to say it’s all been a mistake, that Harry’s still Suspect Number 1, guilty and too fucked up.

Zayn shakes his head, his finger up to his mouth, listening harder for a sound.

Another knock.

“Don’t move,” he whispers, scrambling away from the couch. He presses a hand to his erection, eyes wild, as he takes in the scene around him. Harry’s shirt, the coffee table askew from their rushed movements, the case files and flowers so close.

Thankful that he’s still dressed, Zayn moves quick on his feet to the small table near the front entryway, as another knock comes from the door. His badge and his gun in its chest holster. He hears Harry gasp as he deftly grabs for his trusty Glock 19 and removes the safety.

When Zayn looks over and gives him a serious look, with his finger again up to his lips and a gun at the ready, Harry nods, bewildered. He quickly pulls at his underwear and jeans, hands shaking to do them up again. Zayn doesn’t get nervous often, not since he’s been a detective and mostly removed from harm’s way.

But he’s nervous now. This could be it.

_Think, Zayn._

_If he’s here for me, if he’s finally come to collect, I can’t let it happen inside. I’ll shove whoever it is, whoever left me the flowers, down the front steps. If he tries to hurt me, I’ll have to hurt him first. Get ready._

In the millennia it takes him to reach the wooden front door, Zayn says a silent prayer. And in the three seconds he spends looking through the peephole, his adrenaline crashes yet again, like angry waves against a rock cliff. He winces at the sensation, his chest a ball of tight nerves, an ache that spreads. It hurts. It can’t be good for his health. 

With a sigh, he throws open the door.

“Hey,” he mumbles.

“Hey,” Lex says with a smile.

Zayn knows she would’ve just kept knocking. Because she knows when he's home and she saw the lights on from the kitchen window. It’s their thing, their cue, if Zayn’s not out on the front steps. He should’ve moved them to his bedroom, honestly. Should’ve kept it in the dark, away from Lex’s all-knowing eyes.

He doesn’t invite her in, but it’s never stopped her before. Her eyes land on the gun in his hand, mouth agape, before shuffling past him into the living room. Zayn gives it a few seconds, for Lex to see a half naked man standing there probably terrified, before turning to follow.

But as always, Harry is good. He must’ve thrown his tshirt back on while Zayn was praying, because there he is completely clothed, not a care in the world, sitting back against the couch with his legs crossed. Lex takes it in, the fact that Zayn has a guest, the heat in the room, the way Zayn scratches at his facial hair awkwardly.

“Oh. Sorry,” she says with a odd hand gesture towards Harry, “I didn’t realize…”

“I’m Harry,” he replies with that charming, disarming smile of his. He even gets up to move towards her, to shake her hand in both of his, like he’d like nothing more than to get to know her and take her home sometime.

It takes about twenty seconds for her to blush. _This bastard could get anyone. Jesus Christ._

“Lexi,” she smiles back, pointing to herself. “Neighbor.”

Not quite understanding where the interaction could possibly lead, Zayn frowns. But before he can figure out what to say, how to process the three of them in the same room, Harry does him a solid and points to the kitchen as he says he needs some water.

Lex watches him go, fingers shoved into the ugly pair of sweatpants Zayn has seen on her more times than he can count.

“Well…” she says quietly, turning to Zayn.

“Lex…” he starts, wincing again.

“I’m really happy for you.”

Zayn opens his mouth, but doesn’t know how to respond. Does he shoot it down, the sappy look in her eye that implies he’s found The One or something? Does he simply say that it’s new? That it isn’t anything real or official yet, it’s just a guy, _one_ guy he’s known for a few days, and only because of _awful_ circumstances.

But he finds that he can’t really say anything to refute the thoughts written all over her face, to twist it into something it’s not. Because yeah, it’s new, but it is a thing.

“Thanks,” he mumbles.

She reaches for him, her hands winding around his left wrist since he’s still holding his gun down at his other side.

“Last call, huh,” Lex says with a sad smile, tucking hair behind his ear. “That’s it? For us?”

Harry makes more noise than necessary from the kitchen, probably so he won’t accidentally overhear. They hear him mutter _oh shit_ as a glass tumbles onto the counter on accident, and Zayn can’t help but bite his lip in a smile. Because Harry’s already right at home and it makes Zayn chest ache even more, in a good way. Like maybe an ache inside the chest cavity doesn’t always have to be so bad.

And as he listens to Harry scooping up glass, muttering more _shits_ and _fucks_ , he knows it just as much as Lexi does. It’s over.

He nods. _Yeah babe, it is last call. There’s nothing else here for us anymore._

“I’ll see you around, Lex,” Zayn finishes.

“You too.”

It’s crazy how immediate it happens, the off-switch, after a final statement is said between two people. They both know they won’t see each other anymore, that it’s done. They’ve danced around Lex's infidelity for months, but Zayn knows they can’t dance around this. If he’s admitting to something, even wordlessly, with someone else, they both know what it means. _I’ve let someone in. After all this time, even just a fraction so far, means it’s important._

But it’s a nice lie between adults, cordial and mature, to say they’ll be friendly neighbors once more. A peaceful parting of ways back to how they used to be, over chats at their mailboxes and comments about the neighbors along their block. Lexi back to her boring husband, Zayn back to Harry and the broken glass in his kitchen. Lexi won’t have to take care of him anymore and Zayn won’t have to feel the weight of this particular guilt, won’t have to put up half-hearted attempts to stop what they started. Jesse practically giggles somewhere to Zayn’s right, down the hall towards his bedroom, like _finally, you fucking moron._

Right as she crosses the threshold to leave for good, her arms wrapped around her chest from the chilled night air, she kisses his cheek. Like she can’t leave it as simply _see you around._

“You deserve this,” Lex grins with a nod towards the boy in his house.

“I don’t know about that.”

“Oh please,” she rolls her eyes. “Don’t be such a martyr. It’s important to… find something, someone. Someone who is enough.”

“I’m trying,” he mumbles, pushing away other, more demanding thoughts that say he shouldn’t be happy at all. Thoughts like, _I thought he killed a girl. I almost had him, for stabbing her twice, in an old house where I used to play. I have whole pages on him. Someone wants to hurt me. But whoever he is doesn’t know I’m already dead._

Lexi wrinkles her nose a bit, like she’s not at all forlorn over losing whatever they had. Something easy, simple, no-strings. Zayn knows her and knows she’ll miss it. But she’ll bounce back, somehow. She seems like the type who always does.

Zayn gives her a quick wave, and then she’s gone.

In the minutes that follow, Zayn and Harry don’t say much. Zayn returns his gun to its holster, safety back on, and Harry doesn’t ask why it had to make an appearance. For that, Zayn is grateful. Harry did end up with a glass of water after all, which he settles with on the couch, his feet tucked in between the couch cushions. There isn’t any heat left between them for the time being, the charged moment from before dead and gone. So when Zayn falls back onto the couch and takes a large gulp from the glass Harry holds for him at his chin, it’s with his eyes closed.

“You should go to sleep,” Harry mumbles against his temple. “I’m good here.”

“Yeah,” Zayn agrees in a yawn, chin tilting down to his chest. The entire day has caught up with him all at once. His arms go limp, his feet numb, the slow inhales and exhales from his lungs as quiet as ever.

He doesn’t even remember falling asleep there on the couch, Harry kissing his forehead, but somewhere along the way, he does.

 

\---

 

**DAY 5**

 

_March 23, 2019  
7:00 am_

Zayn wakes up with a jolt. Unsure of where he is. Or why he’s suddenly conscious.

And then he knows.

With the living room curtains wide open, for anyone to look in and see, there’s Harry with his hands around Zayn’s throat.

The thin, innocuous fingers covered in rings, one hand displaying a cross, and the other marked with a moon scar, squeeze at Zayn’s airway. Zayn looks up from the couch, into Harry’s sweaty face. The manic, frenzied joy there. Harry squeezes tighter, presses Zayn harder into the cushions, like they could melt right through them into hell itself.

Zayn chokes, gasping for air, his own hands around Harry’s wrists just for a place to hold on. He tries to use his body to push back, pistons his hips up to get Harry to let go or fall off of him, thrashes, eyes bugging out of their sockets.

But it’s no use. Harry is heavy. Harry is strong. Harry’s hands mean business.

It’s not quite the way Zayn ever envisioned himself dying, but… it makes sense. He knew Harry was capable of this, somewhere deep down. He saw a liar, a crook, a sociopath. But in the end, he let Harry into his home. It’s fitting.

It’s fair.

As Zayn’s arms weaken, as they drop to his sides, it all goes a bit cloudy. _Foggy_. Like when he was thirteen and in a police station, when his chest went foggy. Thick. Wet. Full.

He can’t blink anymore, his eyeballs too full of blood. So he stops trying. His body goes limp like it doesn’t even belong to him anymore, the oxygen from his bloodstream long gone, as he looks up at Harry through thick eyelashes and tries to die. Finally.

Harry watches the light leaving his eyes. He continues to stare down at him, his own eyes wild and focused, smiling, fingers tightening for that final push, his palms crushing Zayn’s windpipe. And Zayn can feel it. It’s so close. He thinks of Jesse as two identical tears fall down towards his ears. Because he finally knows what it feels like, to die at the hands of another, to fade and cry and wish for it to be over.

_I’ve been dead for so long. Dead dead dead dead. I deserve this. No one will have to clean up any blood. No one will step in it._

As if reading his mind, Harry smiles that smile even wider, the one that says he could rip at Zayn’s skin like it was nothing. In slow motion, he leans down until their noses almost touch.

“It only took four days after Romeo showed up, for Juliet to stab herself in the heart,” he whispers into Zayn’s gaping mouth, his pink bottom lip catching Zayn’s blue one. “I’m only saving you the trouble, babe.”

Somewhere, Jesse makes a sound.

And then it’s dark.

\---

 

_March 23, 2019  
7:06 am_

_“Zayn!”_

Harry’s voice slices through the air, hitting Zayn across the face like a slap. His eyes snap open and he realizes he really is on the couch, sweat along his hairline, lungs collapsed. Harry gapes down from where he’s perched over his chest, like seconds before he had to shake Zayn awake, slap at his cheek, yell right at him to wake up.

Zayn hasn’t woken up from anything other than Jesse, or another ghost, or his phone in a very long time. He hasn’t woken up next to someone in even longer, since the night Luke packed his bags. Lex always made sure to leave right away.

“Shit. Sorry,” he breathes, trying to move away. “I’m sorry.”

“You were freaking out,” Harry says, not letting him move. He presses a hand to Zayn’s forehead, concern making his movements jerky and stilted.

“I’m good now.”

“You don’t look good.”

“That’s just my face,” Zayn tries to grin, but it comes out more like a grimace.

Harry moves away to finally let him sit upright. They had fallen asleep together on the couch, as evidenced by the crick in his neck and the cramp in his leg. As he rubs his eyes and wonders where he left his phone, a ray of warm sunlight slants through the window and hits him in the chest.

The sun.

Zayn blinks at it, like he could will it away. But it’s no use. The window. He stumbles over to the front window, which Harry had apparently cracked open an inch sometime in the night for some air. Curtains open, blinds pulled all the way to the top. For anyone to see in. To watch.

Now in the light of day, Zayn sees his boring street, neighbors running and heading to get their papers. Nothing amiss. But like his mother taught him, like that night in the Klein sunroom, what if someone had pressed their nose to the glass? Looking inside like a child would with a dollhouse: intrigued, curious, snooping. He finds himself leaning against the glass, to look down, to see if a stranger left footprints in the dirt between the house and the bushes. Fingerprints on the window pane. Clues.

It’s fucking insane, so he steps back before Harry can question him.

He slams the window shut, locks it, and pulls the curtains together with shaking hands. _Since when am I afraid during the day? Since when am I this much of a fucking pussy? How do I explain this? What if someone really did watch us? What if he’s everywhere?_

“Too bright, babe?” Harry mumbles from behind him, coming up to rest his hands on Zayn’s shoulders. He’s in his boxers, chest warm as it presses against Zayn. Harry massages him a bit, kissing the back of his head to soothe him, which probably means Harry hasn’t forgotten about the startling lucid dream he just had to witness.

“Oh – oh, yeah,” Zayn lies with his eyes closed.

They stand together for a few minutes, front to back like the night before, Harry feeling his way across Zayn’s arms and chest. Zayn ignores the pounding behind his eyelids, the phantom sensation of Harry’s hands around his throat, and breathes.

Regardless of the few hours he had to rest, Zayn is pretty sure this and only this will propel him through the day. If he thinks about it too much, all of the little pieces that hurt him, the flowers and the map pieces and the open window, he’d topple over like a bowling pin and never get up again. So he focuses on Harry’s non-threatening hands, not around his throat, but kneading his back. It’s a nice gesture, something to focus on that stands for comfort, affection, relief. It’s like Zayn forgot what it felt like, to actually feel. To _want_ to feel.

He’s needed this. The lingering kiss on the lips, like the ones spouses exchange before long days at the office. A hug and a pat on the ass. Two people with two heartbeats, “together as one.” Harry already gets it, that Zayn needs an anchor. Something to get him through the day besides caffeine.

If the morning is anything to go by, it’s shaping up to be a big one. Zayn stands there and focuses on Harry’s nipples pressed into his back, the bad taste in his mouth that means the day has a weird edge to it. The air heavy. He sighs.

Harry Harry Harry. Already, it’s Harry, it’s all Harry, all the time. Just a few days in and Zayn feels like Harry is his own brand of specialty espresso, keeping him upright, alert, sane.

He realizes he still has the curtains gripped in his fists. He lets go and turns around to face him, to wrap his arms around Harry’s slim waist.

“My alarm is about to go off,” he says.

“Gross,” Harry wrinkles his nose at the concept, running a gentle hand through Zayn’s messy bed head.

Then with that serious, intense look he gets, his eyes travel along Zayn’s jaw, his perfectly straight nose, the fan of his eyelashes. Like he’s trying to memorize it all, devouring Zayn’s features like he’ll be tested on them later, told to draw Zayn Malik to scale.

They keep doing that, don’t they. Stop and stare. Halt their half-conversations to assess. Memorize and devour. Zayn plays right into it, his quiet, stoic nature serves their dynamic well. He stares at Harry right back. Like if on the days he doesn’t have a choice and has to power down, curl into himself, he’d like nothing more than to burrow and claw his way into Harry’s chest. Like a wild animal would a den. Or a carcass.

“I have to go into the station,” Zayn says, pulling them out of the staring contest.

Harry, so good at slapping on a new emotion in the blink of an eye, suddenly smiles. Rock Star Harry. He shifts a hand down, to ghost over Zayn’s crotch, probably to retort with a quip about the joys of not working a day job, nothing with a tie or suit jacket.

But then Zayn feels him tense up, as he probably remembers, _oh yeah, you’re a detective and you need to find out who murdered my roommate._ He removes his hand from lingering over the line of Zayn’s dick, to instead grip Zayn by the cheeks and kiss him. Just once.

Zayn blinks.

“I’ll wait for you?” Harry says quietly, unsure, eyebrows dancing. “Or I could… I could go, since I have that hotel room still…”

“No, you should stay here.”

It bursts out of Zayn’s mouth before he can question if that’s the right thing to do. Harry said it himself, he’s a strange man. A stranger. Regardless of the notes and background checks Zayn has inside a file folder, Harry is an outsider within Zayn’s sad little life.

But ever since a bunch of roses showed up on the doorstep, it’s realer than ever. Someone is trying to hurt him and someone could hurt Harry. And that just won’t do.

_If I keep you close, I can keep you safe._

Zayn blinks a few more times, waiting. 

“Oh,” Harry finally responds, like he’s genuinely surprised at the offer. “Okay.”

“Only if you want to.”

“I want to.”

Zayn rests his hand to Harry’s chest, pressing against his pulse. _You’re so wonderfully alive, your blood flowing exactly the way it’s supposed to. In my house, with me, practically dead on my feet. I need to keep you._

“Don’t answer the door. And call me right away, if you need me,” Zayn says with a serious frown.

Harry rolls his eyes a bit.

“I’m serious, Harry. Stay inside and call me if anyone knocks on the door.”

“Okay dad, I will,” Harry rolls his eyes again, even more pronounced, so Zayn smacks him in the stomach.

It isn’t exactly fair, to keep Harry in the dark when it comes to the man with the flowers. If he’s going to be inside Zayn’s house, kissing him, exploring whatever they have together, he should probably know. Zayn can’t tell him anything about the past, or the horror he saw in the Klein house, but he could at least say something about a strange man slinking along in the shadows with ripped up pieces of a map. 

But then all of those thoughts are gone, as Harry tells Zayn to go shower and change for work. That he’ll start breakfast, since he’s been craving crepes since he woke up.

Before he heads to the bathroom, Zayn feels like a horse has kicked him again, as he looks over at Harry’s retreating form. The broadness of his back, the small cowlick in his dirty hair from sleeping on a couch. It’s like Zayn can’t catch his breath, at the visual of a boy in his kitchen, reaching into cabinets and commenting about how “cooking breakfast is good for the soul.”

All negative thoughts are gone, because in no time at all, the dormant sections of Zayn’s brain fill up to the brim with Harry Styles. It’s all Harry, all the time.

 

\---

 

_March 23, 2019  
11:30 am_

It’s harder to push away impending doom when staring down at various pictures of a dead girl.

It’s been all morning: Zayn and CJ, perched at their respective desks, Destiny’s file split between them, both intermittently sighing every few minutes. Zayn has taken to his folio, compiling most of his non-Harry related notes into a more cohesive and comprehensive format, as in, _finally_ typed into the system. When he brought Zayn his coffee, CJ eyed the mound of loose pages, full of barely-legible scribbles Zayn made while staking Harry out. He could feel CJ’s judgment without him even saying anything, so Zayn waved a hand to shoo him away.

Yes, Zayn is aware that he needs to input his notes into the database, since CJ had already input everything else days ago. Yes, he is aware that CJ is exceedingly better than him at doing their paperwork. And no, he doesn’t bombard Harry with anxious, worried texts all day, even though he really wants to.

By 11:30, he’s hitting Send on the final note in Destiny’s electronic file. Since most everything Zayn had in his notes pertained to Harry, it wasn’t quite the time-suck he had hoped for.

So they talk it out. Again.

They go over the endless details, of what they know about Destiny, the man from the club, and the roses. CJ can’t let the flowers go. He has alarmingly good instincts, and is absolutely positive that the flowers are key to the investigation. They’re the key to finding a lead.

“They… he didn’t _send_ them, I can’t find a place who _sent_ them. So… he _gave_ them to her, right? He _handed_ her the flowers himself,” CJ mumbles, poking at his forehead with a pen. “They were close and he wanted her to have them.”

Zayn’s cheeks turn slightly pink. He turns away from CJ hunched over his desk, already on edge. It would be so easy for Zayn to spill, to give CJ more to go off of. He could just simply say, _you’re right, Ceej, don’t doubt yourself, the roses weren’t delivered, because I got some too, he left them for me._ _Because I’m connected._

But Zayn still can’t admit the connection between Jesse and Destiny, not out loud, not to his partner, not yet. He’s lucky most of the detectives from his old precinct haven’t caught wind of the case, since Jesse’s death was as tragic as it was unique. No one from the neighborhood ever knew the exact details of how Tim did it or how Jesse was placed, so when it comes to Destiny, there’s not much to hide from the public to keep Zayn’s secret. But even then, no one is asking questions anyways, as predicted. No one cares about the dead stripper from the shitty South O boarding house.

So Zayn keeps it all close to his chest.

And somewhere deep down, it’s becoming murkier as to why.

Zayn gathers up some of Destiny’s file and makes sure to keep her face hidden. He can’t look at her anymore today. It makes his stomach roll every time her clouded eyes stare up at him. If he could just tell CJ what’s going on, it might feel better. CJ with his puppy eyes and emotional connection to most victims would view it as a positive. He’d give Zayn that empathetic stare, serious, grip Zayn by the arm and say something like, “It’s not your fault. How could you have known some psycho would want to get to you?”

Zayn knows all this, the ways CJ is a much better detective than him, even at his young age. And yet he still keeps his mouth shut. Keeps CJ in the dark.

Zayn scratches at the top of his head, where his hair has started to stand up stick straight, and thinks that might be part of it. Admitting the Jesse/Destiny connection would solidify the psycho’s plan: it would, by default, be a clear admission that yes, it’s gotten to Zayn. It’s fucked him up, probably beyond repair, the blood of Destiny on his hands, and he has no choice but to hand it off to someone else. Someone to investigate _Zayn_ , his life, his past, his shortcomings.

And if he were to truly admit that a second murder could’ve been prevented had he done something differently along the way, well… he’s not sure how a person can come back from that. 

Zayn has found, in times of trauma, it’s best to focus elsewhere and not on his fucked up insides. _All we are is sausage meat. And I’m rotten inside anyways, so I might as well prolong the inevitable while I still can._

By mid afternoon, they’ve finished their paperwork from the suicide over the weekend. They’ve had a meeting with the rest of the department, wherein no one really paid attention to their case breakdown and lack of leads regarding Destiny Houthakker. It’s as Zayn feared all along: Destiny won’t be on any year-end “why haven’t we solved this particular case” list. He could pack up her entire fucking case and shove the box under his desk, and no one would even know.

Except for maybe Destiny’s mother, who left a message on Zayn’s desk phone overnight, probably to see if he’s solved it yet. The red light blinks from the phone near his computer, so eventually he scrounges in a drawer for a random glove and throws it over the phone so he won’t have to see it.

He drinks more coffee and trudges on.

The only new idea they have is to bring Rayna and maybe another dancer from the club in, to sit with a sketch artist. It’s not something the detectives usually do in cases like this, where the witnesses involved seem so unsure of the person they need to describe. If Rayna sits with the artist and doesn’t have a clear picture in her head, or can’t focus, or give the right direction, it can actually muddle the case. Shitty sketches have been released to the public in other cases and tip lines go almost deadly quiet. Internally, if they run the sketch through the database to see if any facial recognition hits come in, if the sketch is too vague or basic amongst other white males, Zayn and CJ will have hundreds of names to go through.

But still, they don’t have anyone breathing down their necks, or the news stations or paper calling, wanting to run something. So CJ says with a resigned shrug, since they don’t have much else, it can’t hurt.

With an odd spring in his step from the weather as nice as it is, Zayn volunteers. He says he needs a bit of sunlight on his face, offering to pick Rayna and Monica up from the club. CJ gives him an incredulous stare, at Detective Zayn Malik up on his feet, not curling into a robotic shutdown at his desk. Up, moving, alert. Zayn pretends not to feel CJ’s eyes on his back as he leaves the station. 

The women seem to enjoy the ride, the time away from the club, even from the backseat of Zayn and CJ's car, babbling the whole way. Zayn stops to buy three coffees, and even though Monica says it’s terrible for her teeth enamel, she accepts it.

At one point Rayna says she’s never been in a cop’s car before, her eyes darting around the open backseat, almost like she was expecting more or an actual cruiser with lights and a siren. When Zayn looks “too surprised” by that fact, she scoffs, reminding him that she isn’t a whore, thank you.

“I didn’t say you were,” Zayn says, startled, rounding the corner back towards the station. He feels his phone vibrate with a text in his pocket, but ignores it.

Monica laughs so hard at Zayn’s expression, she almost spills coffee onto the seat.

“I’m just messing with you, Detective Malik,” Rayna says with a wink to him in the rear-view mirror. She even reaches a hand from the backseat and smacks at Zayn’s cheek a bit, which he can’t help but grin over.

“I could arrest you for that,” he mumbles. “Assaulting a police officer.”

That then makes Rayna laugh so hard, she needs a tissue to keep her eye makeup from smudging.

Putting the car into park, Zayn looks up through the window, still chuckling slightly, and sees CJ frowning at him from the front steps of the station, cellphone in hand. The smile slides right off Zayn’s face, as CJ assesses him. Like Zayn had done something wrong. Like his little break out in the sun took too long.

And as Rayna and Monica giggle more about how cute he is when he’s trying to be intimidating, as they try to get Zayn to play along some more, he realizes he _has_ done something wrong. CJ caught him laughing. He wanted a break from his desk, from Destiny's mother's blinking message, their case, their _nothing_... to go see the sun and laugh.

It probably looks like a complete one-eighty from his attitude the day before. And Zayn’s sure that if it were the other way around, he’d already have his pen and folio in hand, eyes in slits, to jot it down. _CJ is losing it. What is wrong with you? How can you joke at a time like this? What’s going on in that head of yours?_

Zayn hurries to school his face, his eyebrows drawn together, as he ushers the two women towards CJ on the steps.

Detective Malik needs to get a grip.

 

\---

 

_March 23, 2019  
5:12 pm_

Two calls come in, in quick succession, one to Zayn’s desk phone and the other to his cell.

“Malik,” he says as an answer, shifting the glove and Destiny’s file over to sit closer to the phone.

“I’m sending you two new pictures.”

It takes him a few seconds to place the voice. It finally registers as the girl from Tech he spoke with three days ago.

“Of what?” Zayn rushes out, flapping a hand at CJ, almost knocking the photo of his parents clean off the desk.

CJ, leaned back in his desk chair, looks up from the small evidence bag he had been holding, the one containing the piece of map and the hand-drawn heart, and his eyes widen. He stumbles over and shoves his ear up to Zayn’s phone, the two of them side by side as various cops around them pack it in for the day.

Zayn hears various clicking and whirring on the other end of the phone, as he massages at his neck. Suddenly the skin there feels tight, like it did in his dream when Harry choked him.

_Focus. That dream was ridiculous and Harry is fine and you’re fine and you’re at work, you fucking dick. Focus on your case._

“Of what?” he repeats.

“You asked for anything from your girl’s phone related to flowers,” Tech says with an annoyed sigh. “There were two additional pictures we didn’t think anything of before. One with a vase of flowers and the other just a close up of one single rose.”

CJ makes a gesture towards the phone, eyebrows drawn.

“Anything else?” Zayn asks, already starting to deflate.

“That’s all you asked for.”

“But nothing, like… no other photos with men in them? And flowers? Nothing from a strange or different location, somewhere she could’ve _gotten_ the flowers?”

“No,” the woman says, clearly ready to leave for the day. “That was it. We put everything in the email. I’m hitting Send now.”

CJ groans and steps away from the desk right as Zayn slams the phone down.

Twenty seconds later, as they read the rundown from researchers and techs at their office downtown, Zayn can practically feel the anger radiating off of CJ. It was a long shot, thinking they’d get something else from Destiny’s phone or computer. But it was one of the last threads they had, the only tangible bit of evidence from Destiny’s locker, and like everything else, has lead them absolutely no where.

Along with the digging CJ had done into various flower shops, the report came back with nothing. The flowers themselves didn’t get delivered from anywhere they could find, so the man gave Destiny the flowers at the club or hand delivered to the house. He either grew them or bought them himself, and sweet-talked her enough to keep them. The piece of map was as generic as any state map found along I-80, showing Omaha and it’s surrounding areas. And the hand-drawn heart didn’t match any particular artist or series they could find, no hits to anything identical on the internet. It was also apparently run through various screenings to see if any heart drawings had turned up at any past crime scenes. No luck. That must’ve been CJ’s request.

“This is fucking bullshit,” CJ breathes, pacing between their desks.

Zayn, not used to hearing him this agitated, realizes that CJ has never gone through this before. A case without any discernible ending. He’s still a junior detective, with that light in his eyes that says, _I can solve anything put before me, just watch, I’ll save the world someday._ He hasn’t had to put cold cases away down in storage.

It hits Zayn that he should’ve been paying more attention. CJ’s fucked up tie, his messy, unkempt hair, the scruff along his jaw longer than ever. The ways he lets himself go when he’s stressed. Zayn, always so focused on his own lack of sleep and Ambien prescription, almost asks if CJ has slept at all the last few days. See if they have something in common. But he doesn’t. He’s not sure he can hold onto any more incremental details, about anything or anyone, with how heavy his brain already feels.

A therapist also told him that once, that he ignores people around him, details and observations and personality quirks, to save himself from getting a best friend again. He tells himself that’s why he’s so good at dissecting a crime scene, when the job calls for it: if he’s paying attention to blood spatter and murder weapons, he doesn’t have to care about anything else. He won’t be hit on by cute boys in bars, boys who remind him of Jesse, if he refuses to engage or make eye contact.

_Maybe I’m just selfish. Self preservation._

Zayn knows he should help. He’s just about to get up and go calm CJ down, bring him back from the edge like CJ has been doing for him since they saw Destiny in that house. Touch his arm, nod in all the right places as CJ breaks down a bit, tell him it’ll be okay. Explain how cold cases really do chill you to the bone, after so many days.

But then his cellphone rings and he stops.

It’s Harry.

“Hey,” Zayn breathes down the line, gripping his desk with the other hand. “What’s up? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Harry chuckles, his voice sounding hollow from an echo. “Just checking to see when you’d be back.”

Zayn deflates and leans back in his chair to close his eyes.

“Soon.”

“We should make dinner,” Harry notes, as Zayn realizes he must be in the bathroom. He can hear the creak of his medicine cabinet, the shifting of its contents. _What a little fucking snoop._

“Yeah sure, whatever you want.”

When Zayn opens his eyes again, to bring order back to the open file on his desk, he very purposefully ignores CJ staring at him. Zayn doesn’t often take personal calls that allude to someone of merit on the other end, unless it’s family. The flush to Zayn’s cheeks must give away the fact that it most certainly isn’t his mother on the other end.

“Can you cook?” Harry asks, moving around more items in Zayn’s bathroom. As a pill bottle tumbles into the sink, he mutters, “Shit…”

“A bit,” Zayn says around a laugh.

“Okay, good. I’ll help you make something.”

Zayn continues to smile as he bites at his thumbnail. He has to turn his body so CJ won’t see him acting like a fucking idiot. Or ask any questions. CJ can’t know how fucked up he is, what he’s doing, how so far off he’s wandered from the case. He can’t know that Zayn’s relationship with Harry Styles has moved on from occupational obsession into something more… emotionally obsessive. _Jesus Christ, I’m emotional over some guy back at my place, and I almost fucked him last night, after we talked for hours. Fuck._

Harry pulls him out of his spiral, thoughts coming to a screeching halt.

“Oh, someone left flowers,” Harry says nonchalantly.

The blood drains from Zayn’s cheeks as fast as it arrived.

“What?”

“Yeah, two bouquets. They’re gorgeous. When I went to answer the door, no one was there,” Harry says. “Were you expecting a delivery? Want me to open the cards?”

“What?” Zayn repeats himself, pressing at his temple. “Wh – when… what?”

_Flowers. Gorgeous flowers. I told you not to open the door. I told you to call me first. I need to get out of here. I have to go. I can’t be here._

“Zayn?”

_Roses. More roses. Roses when Harry was there. Eyes on us. My house, the window was open, someone looking in. Harry Harry Harry Harry._

Zayn presses a hand to his face, muttering the word over and over again.

“Babe, are you okay?”

“Listen to me,” Zayn says in a rush, suddenly propelled out of his chair to gather his shit. Careful not to say Harry’s name. Careful with his words, with CJ so close.

“What?” Harry says, nervous now. Voice no longer hollow. No longer in the bathroom.

“Do not open the door again. Leave the – leave them on the table. Don’t touch them. Don’t… don’t move. I’m – I’ll be there soon.”

“Zayn, you’re freaking me out. What’s happening?”

“Don’t open the door,” Zayn finishes, shoving the last piece of paper into his bag as he hangs up the phone.

Without saying anything to CJ, without giving him an explanation, Zayn keeps his eyes down and grabs for the evidence bag from CJ’s desk. The one with the piece of map. The one Zayn needs to take home, to compare to the one left for him, to compare to the new flowers.

_Why did he leave them when Harry was there? Why not me? Why why why why why? Harry Harry Harry Harry._

Zayn practically runs into a sergeant as he weaves through the open station, various detectives and cops looking up at the movement. Trained to chase wrongdoers, their eyes assessing him as the walls close in. He can hear CJ calling out after him, scared and upset at being left in the dark, but Zayn doesn’t slow down.

He doesn’t look back.

 

\---

 

_March 23, 2019  
6:04 pm_

It’s his own fault for not paying attention to the details, for not trusting his gut feeling that morning. When he woke up from a dream that shook him to the core, to see an open window, he should’ve known. The day had an odd feeling, like before a big storm. He just didn’t pay attention.

That is Zayn’s reasoning, as he comes squealing around the corner towards home. His side of the street with the identical duplexes looks the same as ever, same with the other side and its little houses. But he needs to pay attention. He needs to start thinking of his apartment, of his block, as a crime scene. It’s a place this guy must know by now, has kept his eye on, to know where Zayn lives and how to access him. _It’s not exactly hard to Google someone’s address,_ that’s what Harry said.

He yet again chooses not to park in the back alley, tires screeching to a halt right in front of his walk way. The wind blows the same, no neighbors out walking or sitting on their porches, to bear witness to a strange man who left two bouquets of flowers on Zayn’s doorstep. Duplexes, still. Houses across the street, normal. Calm. 

In the few seconds Zayn stands there with his hands on his hips, head swiveling on his neck like a fucking top to assess his surroundings, only one car drives by. It’s a young woman from down the block, the top of a baby carrier visible in the back seat. As she slowly drives past the odd shaped grey house with the shitty shutters and overrun garden, she eyes him for a beat. Concerned about the creepy neighbor she rarely sees, the one who drives too fast and now ambles around the sidewalk for no reason. And in that moment, Zayn grabs at his hair, his cheeks red, as he realizes he’s the only one in the vicinity acting suspicious.

Once he’s inside and has the door double bolted behind him, he calls out for Harry. The way he left things on the phone probably freaked Harry the fuck out, as he said, and honestly, Zayn wouldn’t be surprised if he left once they hung up. It would actually make the most logical sense, from Harry’s viewpoint. The lead detective in his dead roommate’s case, the one he almost got fucked by the night before, who then brandished a _gun_ when a knock came at the door, left him alone in an apartment and said not to leave.

Zayn looks around with a frown and almost hopes Harry did leave. It might make things easier. _You should be smarter than me and cut the cord before this starts._

Suddenly his eyes are drawn through the living room, straight to the kitchen table. Two bouquets of roses, one red and one white, sit side by side in old plastic College World Series cups. The original bouquet sent to Zayn, the one he threw onto the table, still lays there, the pink petals wilting. It’s a table full of roses, and it makes Zayn’s stomach seize up in a vice grip.

Harry’s there in the kitchen, Zayn notes, as he walks over to the table. Harry, in a pair of Zayn’s black briefs and a too-small white tshirt Zayn shrunk in the wash, facing the window over the sink. The tap is running, but he’s not washing a dish or his hands, not filling a glass. He’s just standing there, looking out the window toward the alley, eerily still.

Zayn clears his throat.

When Harry turns around, his face is quite plain. Passive. Zayn can’t help but take in how gorgeous he looks, the wiry dark hair peaking up over his own briefs, the lines of his thighs, nipples hard under his shirt.

Harry folds his arms across his chest, because he can see Zayn looking. Zayn also notes that Harry takes him in much the same way, his eyes practically black: Zayn’s black tie loose around the collar, his straight shoulders covered by his jacket, the belt buckle low like it was meant to draw the eye straight to his dick.

They can’t be doing this, not yet. Even with the air charged around them, like an electric current humming beneath their feet, it’s not time yet. Zayn can’t press Harry back into the counter, his hand feeling Harry’s cock through a layer of fabric, to see if he would gasp at it. See what sounds he can take from Harry, when he’s too overwhelmed to stop himself.

Jesse makes a hissing sound, not unlike a cat, because he must know too. _Jesus Christ, Zayn. Not now._

“I told you not to touch them,” Zayn ends up saying, gesturing to the roses.

“They’re flowers, Zayn,” Harry responds, like it’s obvious. “I couldn’t just leave them out in the sun. And they’re meant to be in water. I couldn’t find vases, so these will have to do. And no, I didn’t look at the cards.”

Zayn grits his teeth.

“The other one you had,” Harry sighs, voice tight, shuffling to the table to poke at the dying roses still tied together in twine, “was too far gone. Shame, too. The pink would’ve looked nice next to the red and white.”

Zayn still doesn’t respond.

“Do you have a secret admirer?” Harry asks, face still passive, tilting his head a bit. He must be good at avoiding thorns, because as he moves the roses around just so in the faded plastic cups like he’s trying to arrange them, he doesn’t wince from pain once. No blood drawn.

“No.”

“Are you married?” Harry then asks, a slight tremor to his voice. Like he’s trying to arrange his features just like the flowers, to seem like he doesn’t give a shit.

_You give so much of a shit, you can’t even look at me. You went through my medicine cabinet to find a bottle of perfume, or maybe some other man’s aftershave, a wedding ring, a phantom name on a bottle of pills._

_You care. And I care. And we’re both not supposed to._

“No, babe. I’m not married.”

“Who sent them, then?”

Zayn feels completely out of his depth, caught off guard by this version of Harry. He’s seen him behind yellow police tape, with nervous hands and an anxious shift to his gait. He’s seen him light up a stage like a fucking god, challenge him in a gritty alleyway, crying on his couch with a string of _I didn’t do its_. Three days ago, Zayn would look at Harry right now and think _you’re playing me, you’re fucking with my head, how dare you weasel your way in here._

But it’s not three days ago, it’s now. And barely twenty minutes before, Harry called Zayn to nonchalantly break the news that Zayn’s significant other sent flowers, while feeling like a “kept boy” walking around in a pair of strange underwear.

Zayn steps right up to him, to feel his warmth, to hold him by the hip. He presses a palm up under the tshirt, flat against Harry’s lower back, to mouth at his jaw and breathe him in.

“I told you I can’t tell you things,” Zayn says in a half-whisper, lips ghosting across Harry’s shoulder. “Would it make a difference if I said I didn’t _want_ the flowers? That I _hate_ flowers?”

He feels Harry’s major muscle groups unclench, his arms winding around Zayn’s middle.

“Actually, yes,” Harry grins into Zayn’s shoulder, like he’s relieved it was an unwelcome delivery. A gift for Zayn that wasn’t from him.

“I also told you not to answer the door.”

“Oh please,” Harry sighs, still smiling. “Can I tell you that I think you’re being dramatic?”

Zayn snorts a laugh despite himself.

“Yes, you can.”

“Good, because you are.”

From the way they’re standing, entwined and engrossed, it's an opportune moment to think. Zayn lets his hand fall from Harry’s hip to his groin. He applies pressure, just enough for Harry to inhale a sharp breath, to give himself a moment to assess the contents of his kitchen table. Both bouquets of roses have the same kind of “card” attached, pieces of a map, hearts drawn on the one visible side. Zayn itches to go inspect them, to see if the map is the same. Maybe if there’s something different about them, something tangible, something he can take to CJ for them to comb over together. Maybe it’ll finally give him that push to admit what happened in 2002.

Predictable, like all boys, like putty in his hand, Harry starts to rut into Zayn’s palm, his face buried into Zayn’s neck. Hard up for it, ready to get a move on. But Zayn keeps him on edge, just runs his fingers over Harry’s length, thumb catching on the head, so he can have a think.

_He’s taunting me. He knows the fucking flowers are driving me crazy and he’s not going to stop. If he’s watching me, he knew Harry was here. He wanted Harry to know._

He’s pulled out of his thoughts, pulled away from the mental list of things to write in his folio, when Harry steps away. Harry, who with a groan shifts Zayn’s hand away from the now formed wet spot in his briefs. He shakes his hair out, huffs a breath, presses at his cock to stay still.

“No,” he says with a dimpled smile, “I want dinner first. Let’s have dinner and then you can have your way with me.”

Zayn smiles, runs a hand through his hair, like Harry’s caught him. He pretends like that’s where his mind was, simply bending Harry over and fucking him until he’s not able to walk. And since he’s become so accustomed, Zayn lies through his teeth, without even opening his mouth. Sheepish, “horny” grin. 

“Naughty, naughty,” Harry wags a finger at him, heading out of the kitchen. He yells about putting some clothes on, from the depths of Zayn’s bedroom.

And that’s his chance.

Zayn rushes to the table, still not using his fucking brain to put on gloves, and inspects the roses up close. Both bouquets are tied with the same brown gardener’s twine. The map pieces are the same size as before, a little bigger than a standard deck of cards. Hand delivered by a man, on Zayn’s doorstep, before once again hiding in the shadows like a fucking coward.

He’s angry as he flips both pieces of the map around, pissed at being played with like a rat in a cage. Like Destiny’s flowers from the club, or the first bunch given to him, he’s expecting to just see various blues and greens, more pieces of Omaha, nothing else to go on, because that’s just how this entire fucking case has been so far.

But to Zayn’s astonishment, written in black ink on the two cards, are four words.

**_For you._ **

**_And yours._ **

Zayn knows Harry is still babbling about food from the other room, and he knows he has to rearrange his face by the time Harry gets back to the kitchen. But for now, in the moment, Zayn allows himself to tumble off of anger’s cliff, into a pool of emotions all at once: grief, fear, panic. To wince, to bite his lip raw. He lets it sink in.

_A bouquet for me. And a bouquet for Harry._

 

\---

 

_March 23, 2019  
7:31 pm_

“Your tongue is ridiculous, you know,” Zayn says, slightly morosely, as he forks another bite of pasta into his mouth, his back a little too rigid in his chair.

Harry, looking affronted, pretends to pound his left fist onto the kitchen table like he’s about to get up to leave. But then he giggles like a fucking kid, rolling his eyes, explaining how it’s the only way he’s ever eaten. That the best foods require you to stick your tongue out to eat them, like ice cream or cotton candy or cereal, so the drops of milk don’t fall back into the bowl.

Zayn’s not entirely convinced on that last one.

“And how am I expected to do it differently now? I’m already an adult,” Harry says, before sticking his tongue out as he eats a bite.

“Ridiculous,” Zayn mumbles, shaking his head.

But what’s actually ridiculous is the fact that he’s having a fucking dinner date with Harry Styles, in his dimly lit kitchen because apparently it’s “sexier” that way. The flowers have been moved to the coffee table, seeing as how Harry thinks they’re some secret, albeit “lovely” gift, instead of the taunts they actually are. The two cards, now safely in evidence bags zipped into Zayn’s folio, taunt him as well.

If Zayn had his way, he’d take all three bunches and walk them straight to the curb. Throw them into the trash where they belong.

Maybe even throw his arms out, at the phantom man who wants to fuck with him, and say, “I’m right here, mother fucker! Come and get me!”

Somewhere Jesse sniggers and says, _ooh how dramatic, Zayn. You want an Oscar for that one?_ And that’s why he then rolls his eyes, no longer at Harry’s eating habits, but at Jesse being an asshole. As if Zayn didn’t learn his dramatics _from_ Jesse Klein.

They sit closer than Zayn’s accustomed to, tucked on the same-ish side of the round table, their ankles touching. Harry rambles about how Zayn cut the onion in a way he’s never tried before, even motions with his hands how he’ll hold the knife next time, to parrot Zayn’s earlier movement. Zayn can’t help but lean back once they’re finished, his arm on the back of Harry’s chair as Harry swirls red wine in a fancy glass Zayn forgot he even had. He forgot he had the wine too, some bottle his captain gave him over Christmas that he knew he’d never drink, stowed away in a cabinet next to the flour he never bakes with.

It’s so boring, so normal, it hurts. It actually hurts in the place it always aches, to sit with a man again, playing with the hair along Harry's neck, eating and laughing. It’s a dull ache in his chest, and it reminds him of the early days with Luke, when they were studying or eating too many sub sandwiches from the dining hall. When Zayn would sit back and let him talk about his mom, the Husker defensive line, the new shoes he wanted to buy. It was normal then, easy, before it got heavier and heavier, the older they got. The more Zayn closed himself off, after the dreaded L-word got thrown around.

The two most prominent boys from Zayn’s past, Jesse and Luke, both loud and abrasive and harsh in their movements. And now Harry, wine drunk and rambling about his music again. _I really do like them loud, don’t I._

Zayn lets his mind drift a bit, as Harry settles back against his arm. His wine is almost gone, almost half the bottle to himself, and it’s made his cheeks rosy.

“I didn’t even ask you about your day,” Harry says, turning his face towards Zayn, their noses only a few inches apart.

_We said we wouldn’t discuss the case. I told you._

“It was fine,” Zayn answers him, with a clear period on the end of the sentence.

“So nothing… new, then?”

“No, Harry,” Zayn sighs. “Still nothing. I still don’t have any answers.”

“You will,” Harry says with a nod, blinking slowly. “I know it.”

Zayn frowns, once again lost in thought. _I’m not so sure._ _I can’t find the missing piece, the hurt I caused, the crack in someone’s life to lead them to do this. I’m supposed to be helping people. This is what I’m supposed to do._

It’s like when the two of them stared at each other in the dark of the Klein house, the night of Day 1. When both of them sought out solace, wanting to find meaning within the chaos, to look down on the dried pool of blood to make sense of it. There in the Klein house, those moments Zayn spent going over in his head the path that lead him to become a detective in the first place. Except then he was in his head alone, and Harry was the enemy.

Now it’s different. Now he’s supposed to open up to someone. Participate and be a real person, instead of a broken one.

“This…” he starts, unsure of how to put himself out there without saying too much, “is what I’m meant for. To help people. To… save them, maybe. And it’s… difficult for me, when I can’t.”

Harry sets his wine glass down and shifts closer, to wrap his arms around Zayn and close his eyes.

“That’s good, babe. Your job is important and you’re good at it.”

“Thank you.”

“But in case it doesn’t go without saying,” Harry says with a small smile, “I don’t need to be saved. You don’t need to worry about me. When you’re not working, you’re off the clock. You don’t need to keep me locked up here.”

_Maybe I should._

They’re probably both thinking about Zayn’s instructions to stay inside, to keep the door locked, to close the curtains. Zayn’s starting to see that it’s not Harry’s style, to be told what to do or how to live. But in Harry’s eyes, Zayn’s just being dramatic. Zayn wants to tell him it’s for his own safety, that there really is death around the corner, that his own judgment day feels so close, he can still feel the hands around his neck since that morning. 

“Besides,” Harry says in his deep voice, teasing, shifting away to go put their plates in the sink. “I’m only here to get in your pants.”

Zayn laughs at that, his big, awkward laugh that Jesse used to make fun of him for.

Harry seems delighted by it, like he loves nothing more than making Zayn laugh. And for the first time in a long time, when Zayn closes his eyes to rest his head for a bit, he doesn’t feel like he's shutting down.

He just feels like an overworked shirt-and-tie, his stomach full of pasta, a man he calls _babe_ doing dishes at the sink.

Even in the midst of the hurricane he’s in, it’s a comforting moment.

 

\---

 

 _March 23, 2019  
8:00 pm_

At exactly eight on the dot, Zayn’s phone rings from his bag near the front door.

He wipes his hands off on a towel, leaving Harry to do the rest of the dishes on his own for now, and makes his way past the roses without looking at them. The roses can wait. He’s about ten minutes away from getting Harry naked, and he can’t focus on work right now. He can’t focus on Jesse or Destiny or their files.

The ringing must make Jesse mad, because he flutters the curtains looking out onto the street and Zayn has to tell him in a hushed whisper to fuck off.

“Malik,” he answers, wiping the rest of the water on his hands onto his grey hoodie.

“It’s me,” CJ says in a rush, clearly still at his desk.

“What the fuck, Ceej. Why haven’t you left yet?”

“Shut up,” he responds, probably waving his hand around like Zayn does when he doesn’t want to hear it. “I have Dalton on the other line, I’m connecting you.”

“Okay…”

A few seconds pass, and then he speaks again.

“D, are you there?” CJ says just as quickly, breath coming out in bursts, like he’s on uppers. It’s probably just good old caffeine, since he rarely ever indulges. He’s not used to it.

“Hey,” Dalton says from across town, wheeling around in his lab on that ugly fucking desk chair, “I have your results back.”

Zayn loses feeling in every extremity, every appendage. Except for his toes. That phantom itch of blood between them. He registers the sink being shut off, the movement over his shoulder, the cold breath on the back of his neck.

One of the ghosts wants him to pay attention to something. So Zayn uses all of the energy he has left, to turn around and keep his eyes open.

“Say it,” CJ rushes.

Harry walks into the room with the towel in his hands, frowning. He mouths something, gestures to Zayn’s phone, but it doesn’t register.

Zayn stares at him with his mouth open, his sock full of Jesse’s blood, at the man standing in his living room, _wearing my clothes,_ like he's already moved in and on the fucking lease.

“Your DNA sample, the one you brought me,” Dalton says, slapping at a piece of paper on his desk. “It’s a match to the semen on the bed sheets, my friend. 99.99% complete genetic match.”

Harry won’t stop frowning. He doesn’t understand why Zayn is looking at him that way.

But then it lands. It makes sense.

As Zayn and Harry stare at each other from across that small little room, they both finally see the truth hanging in the air. They feel the shift between them, of change, a mutual understanding of information learned and information withheld.

Harry sees Zayn with a phone to his ear, stunned, eyes shifting from wide and incredulous, to severe and accusatory. Angry. Detective Malik from Day 1, when they locked eyes across yellow police tape.

Zayn hangs up the phone without responding to CJ or Dalton, and lets his arm drop. He can see straight through Harry, like he's as transparent as a fucking puddle. And he _sees_ Harry understand that Zayn just learned important information, a day after he offered his open mouth to be swabbed. He knows Harry knows, because Harry is smart. Sees him go still, face as white as the dead, at being caught red handed.

Zayn knows how to read people, picking up on small motions, eye movements, social cues. He can pick people apart, making sense out of a mess of color and swirl of chaos.

He sees the guilt again, written all over Harry’s perfect, blank, passive face. 

Zayn raises a hand and lunges forward.

 

 

  


	4. DAYS 6 AND 7

**DAY 6**

 

_June 30, 2002  
11:38 am_

As Jesse and Zayn step into the ACE Hardware on Center, the air conditioning slams against their skin so intensely, it causes immediate goose bumps, the kind that hurt a little. Zayn can tell Jesse feels it too. As he shivers, the sweat along his hairline cooling immediately, he checks on Jesse and sees him rubbing at his prickling arms.

But before Jesse can notice him staring, he quickly looks away.

The ride from Jesse’s house was a long one: five blocks past the grade school, past Hanscom Park, a left on Center and then all the way to 50th Street. Miles and miles up Center, dodging cars, pretending like they weren’t nervous to be alone, without helmets, on such a busy street. Zayn had never ridden his bike that far before, never with his dad and certainly never without him. But Jesse was on a mission, his face set, a stolen twenty in his pocket.

Earlier that morning, Mikey destroyed his favorite wrestling poster. He ran right into Jesse’s room, before Jesse could tear up the stairs to catch him by the ankle, and jumped on his bed with wild arms. Ripped it from the wall, laughed like it was a game, scurried away as Jesse and Zayn skidded into his bedroom to stop him. Zayn had never seen Jesse that angry before, his face red, his hands in fists as he screamed for his mom. How unfair it was, how he was gonna kill Mikey, wring his neck once and for all. The little girls watched from their room, Cassie from her own doorway, eyes wide and jaws on the floor, at Jesse being so mad.

As always, Zayn followed Jesse to the ends of the earth. When Jesse’s mouth went into a straight line and he grabbed Zayn by the wrist to pull him back down the old wooden stairs, Zayn made sure not to trip.

So now they’re at ACE, alone. Dirty and sweaty from the heat. Shuddering from the quick temperature change. Zayn doesn’t know what they came for, but it seems important so he keeps his mouth shut.

Just then a nice lady comes up to them. Big smile, long blonde hair tied back, wearing a red vest and jeans. Zayn glances at Jesse and very distinctly notices how Jesse can’t stop looking at her boobs. They’re really big.

“Hi boys,” she says as she puts her hands in her front vest pockets. “Can I help you find something?”

Zayn wrings his hands together and waits for Jesse’s lead.

“Uh,” Jesse starts, his voice cracking immediately. He winces at it, stupid puberty, rubs his arms harder. But then he’s right back to staring at her. “I need a lock.”

Zayn sees that her name tag says Toni.

“A lock?”

“Yes,” Jesse nods, face still all open and in awe. Trying with all his might not to look down at her boobs again.

“What do you need a lock for?” Toni asks, her head tilting. Maybe she’s caught on to the fact that two young boys just stepped into the store without their parents, dirt on their faces, asking for help.

Jesse shifts his weight, acts all awkward, which is more like Zayn than it is like Jesse. Jesse is never shy. He’s always yelling up a storm, Zayn sees it all the time, the quiet sidekick beside Hurricane Jesse.

So Zayn helps him and nudges at his arm, to speak up. Jesse nudges him back even harder.

“I need to know what you need a lock for, to help you find the right kind, love,” Toni says with a warm smile, stepping back to let them look around the store more.

But Jesse’s face goes red as he huffs a laugh, still all clammed up and weird, and suddenly Zayn hates it. _His name is Jesse, not “love.”_ He tries to touch Jesse’s arm again, to maybe get them to leave, since this was a dumb idea. But Jesse steps out of his reach, steps closer to the nice woman in the red vest, and Zayn hates it.

“I need a lock for my bedroom, please,” he says all polite, which is stupid because Jesse is a brat, he doesn’t say please. “My brother keeps coming in and I want to keep him out.”

“Ah, okay,” Toni nods, moving towards the center aisle, the two boys following her. “I have a little sister, so I understand.” She winks at him. “A lock for a door. Maybe a lock you can put on the inside, so he can’t bother you?”

“Yes,” Jesse nods frantically, his feet not faltering at all, even as Zayn trips after the two of them.

They come to an aisle with various doorknobs and padlocks. The metal contraptions tower over them on either side: security chains, master lock braids, padlocks with keys, padlocks with number combinations, various lock outs. Zayn goes with his dad sometimes, to the hardware store by their house, when he needs to pick up birdseed and fertilizer. They’ve never needed to buy any special locks before, so it all feels rather intimidating. The whole aisle smells like metal and grease.

“How about a chain lock,” Toni says brightly, pointing to red ACE packages that look like old hotel locks, with little chains for privacy. “See, you screw this part into the door, and this part into the door frame. Then you can slide the chain back and forth.”

Jesse nods. Zayn stares at the side of his face.

“It lets you open the door a few inches, from the inside,” Toni continues, reaching for a package with a gold chain rattling around. “So if someone knocks, you can poke your head out and see who it is.”

“And if it’s my mom, I can slide it back and let her in,” Jesse nods again, smiling at her. “And my stupid brother will be so mad when I tell him to go away.”

Toni chuckles at that, handing Jesse the lock. Jesse asks her if he needs a screwdriver and screws, since he doesn’t know if his dad has any. Zayn follows the two of them around the store, as she explains that yes, he’ll need some supplies. Each aisle smells weirder than the last and Zayn feels his face heating up, the longer he watches Jesse trail after this woman with a million questions about hardware, like Jesse actually cares about it. He doesn’t, he just wants to smell her perfume and look at her boobs when she’s looking somewhere else.

Zayn could walk out the door and sit on the curb next to his bike and Jesse wouldn’t even notice. Zayn hates that, when Jesse doesn’t notice him. When he’s just _there_ , not saying anything, not making Jesse laugh, not playing along because there aren’t any games. It’s like when the Nielsen brothers come over and take all of Jesse’s attention. It sucks.

He’s pulled out of it when Toni lays her hand on his shoulder. He looks up at her, the shorter of the two boys, with his wide Malik eyes and she must repeat herself.

“So what about you, handsome. Did you need anything today?”

Zayn opens his mouth to respond, but Jesse elbows him in the side to get out of the way, right as Toni’s hand falls. Zayn almost trips.

“No, we just needed the lock. That’s all,” Jesse says with a smile, stars in his eyes, as they head towards the front counter. Zayn sighs and follows them yet again.

After they pay with Jesse’s dad’s stolen money, they’re given a plastic bag full of hardware and a handful of Jolly Ranchers. Jesse waves at Toni over his shoulder and she waves back, amused. They step out of the store back into the sweltering heat and Jesse actually jumps up and down a few times, amazed. He yammers on about how pretty she was and how she knew so much stuff, how her boobs looked so nice, how she smiled at him.

“Maybe she likes me,” Jesse says with a stupid wink, elbowing Zayn again to play along.

“Maybe,” Zayn says.

Jesse makes them ride back to his house against the flow of traffic, which makes Zayn nervous, to see so many headlights coming at them. It’s still daytime, so his mom wouldn’t necessarily kill him since it’s not dark out, but she’d still be mad that he went so far. It really wouldn’t do well for him to get hit by a car.

Zayn thinks he’ll be angry the rest of the day, all the way until tomorrow when his mom is supposed to pick him up after their sleepover. As he pumps his legs harder and stares at the back of Jesse’s head, he thinks weird things, stupid things, about how annoying it is when Jesse smiles at girls and smells them and stares like they’re more important. He swears he’ll be angry at Jesse all night, even when they sit out on the porch and watch cars after midnight, or when they curl up in the sun room because it’s so hot, to talk about everything and nothing. Maybe he’ll give Jesse the silent treatment, just because.

But then they’re back in Jesse’s room and he’s looking around at the remnants of his poster, the fact that his siblings came in _again_ while he was gone and moved everything around on his desk. And Zayn sees he has tears in his eyes, real actual tears, at his room being messed with. Again.

Zayn can’t be angry. Before he can tell himself not to, he reaches out and puts his hand on Jesse’s shoulder. To make him feel better.

Jesse shakes his head to snap out of it, and delves into the ACE bag to get started on his new project. The package with the lock, a screwdriver, screws and plastic anchors, their Jolly Ranchers. Zayn sucks on a watermelon one as he watches Jesse work, determined and stoic, very handy with a screwdriver. Which makes Zayn stare harder. Jesse is good with his hands. Even when Mikey starts yelling at him from the hall, to see what his big brother is up to, if he can play too, Jesse doesn’t flinch or say anything back.

But he says something afterwards, as they slump against the newly locked door and kick off their shoes, something Zayn will never forget.

“Thanks for going with me today,” Jesse mumbles, his face still wrecked and splotchy. Zayn inhales a breath, his eyes watering slightly as he stares at Jesse’s tan face, the dip to his upper lip, the way his hair falls around his ears.

“Yeah, of course,” Zayn nods.

“If you ever need a lock on your door, now I can help,” Jesse says with a smile as he fiddles with the screwdriver, finally returning Zayn’s stare. “Keep you locked up tight. Not from a dumb brother, but like… I don’t know, from bad stuff. Keep you nice and safe.”

Zayn nods his head harder, his fingers itching to touch Jesse’s hand. Because Jesse knows how much Zayn hates the Klein’s unlocked front door and how nervous he gets about uncovered glass. How his mother warned him about Stranger Danger before he could even _talk_. How he likes to feel safe. And it means Jesse knows him so well, knows him better than anyone, and he wants to touch his hand so, so bad. But he doesn’t.

_Nice and safe._

They go sleep on the loungers in the sun room that night. And for maybe the first time ever, Zayn doesn’t spend it anxious and scared of impending doom, of the eyes that could look in at him. He doesn’t think about anything other than Jesse, and how they’re best friends, and how Jesse wants him to be nice and safe.

Zayn likes to be safe.

Zayn likes locked doors.

\---

_March 24, 2019  
5:56 am_

A clock ticks on the wall.

The smell of a fresh pot of coffee wafts from room to room there in the station.

There’s blood in his mouth.

These are the things he knows.

Zayn sniffs as his tongue pokes out to feel at the cut on his lip, wet, a scab not yet formed. _Tastes like how it smells._

Slumped in his chair, he won’t let himself look to his left, into the room. Not anymore. His eyes instead focus over on the three tiles along the far wall that don’t quite line up correctly. He’s in the darkened side room connected to Interrogation Room 3, the one behind the large double-sided mirror looking in on the room for suspects, a secluded place for detectives and witnesses to discuss. To assess and pick apart the perps they throw in that cinder-blocked cell, with only a steel table and an uncomfortable chair.

Every time Zayn finds himself in this particular cramped room, he looks at those three tiles. It’s like whoever laid them didn’t quite measure correctly, didn’t start _in_ the corner and work their way out. A half-inch section between the tiles and the wall that then had to be filled in with caulk. Wrong. Off.

He has to remind himself to blink.

Just then the door to his right opens and in steps CJ. Zayn refuses to look him in the eye so he continues his staring contest with the tiles. They’re so fucked up looking. How has no one ever tried to fix them? Or put a piece of furniture there to cover them up? A lamp or even a coat rack. Maybe a filing cabinet.

CJ knows what he’s doing, so he purposefully brings another small bag of ice up into Zayn’s line of vision. Shakes it a bit. Zayn reluctantly takes it, sniffing again, and presses it at his lip.

He mumbles his thank you, and nothing more.

CJ moves to lean against the desk next to him, careful of the files Zayn brought in, thankfully blocking Zayn’s view through the mirror into the interrogation room. CJ’s good like that, even with his stern gaze and crossed arms. Exhausted and spent after such a long night, probably crashing from the coffee he has in his hand. Confused. Angry.

It was like one minute CJ and Dalton were on the phone with Zayn telling him some good news about their DNA sample, and the next they heard nothing but ragged breathing. A scuffle. Two men yelling at each other on the other end of a call that Zayn thought he ended.

The line went dead. CJ panicked.

And then five minutes later, he received a call from Zayn telling him he was on his way in. That he had Harry Styles in handcuffs already.

Boy, did he. Zayn walked into the station pushing Harry Styles ahead of him, both of them looking worse for wear. Zayn with a busted lip, Harry with a blooming black eye and blood in his mouth from biting his tongue, their hair and clothes a fucking wreck. Zayn didn’t even speak to CJ right away, just marched Harry past Booking, to shove Harry into an interrogation room first thing.

Harry didn’t seem to put up a fight, the handcuffs behind his back not even necessary because he was only a suspect again, not formally arrested. CJ should’ve been more upset about Zayn practically breaking the law, but he let it slide. Because Zayn looked murderous as he wiped at his lip and pushed Harry in the back to cross the station faster. Harry didn’t blink, didn’t ask for a lawyer, didn’t yell out to CJ or the few other cops around to help him. He had Zayn shoving at his shoulder to hurry, tripping him up as he walked, but he didn’t say a word.

That was hours ago, when Zayn finally leveled CJ with a look and asked that no one speak to Harry about the case. That he wanted to be the one to do it, and he couldn’t until he calmed down. So CJ let him. He didn’t call their sergeant in over night, didn’t raise any alarms, as they waited around for Dalton’s report to get sent over. CJ stationed a uniform outside of the interrogation room, instructed to get Harry water if he asked, or the restroom if he needed to take a piss.

Zayn didn’t leave 3’s side room all night, and he knows Harry hasn’t asked for either. He just sat in the chair, his hands now cuffed in the front, like he was waiting. He didn’t pace or cry or hum to pass the time, like some suspects do. He just sat there, face blank. Zayn did note that every so often, Harry would lean his arms on the table and lay his head down for a few minutes. But then he’d be right back up again, shifting in his seat, cracking his neck, _still wearing my clothes._

Zayn knows CJ won’t let him keep this routine up. They both know they can only legally keep Harry in that room for another few hours, not without a formal charge. Not without a lawyer. They’ve already toed over the ethical line CJ so rigidly stays behind, by keeping a suspect on the hook like this without any questioning or explanation of rights. And Zayn knows he needs to say something soon.

As it is, he just presses at his mouth with the fourth bag of ice CJ has brought him and prays this one doesn’t melt as fast as the others did.

CJ clears his throat and uncrosses his legs.

“You have to tell me what happened,” CJ says quietly. He’s impatient, but he’s also Zayn’s junior detective. He needs to keep his voice level. Respectful.

Zayn blinks and stares at the tiles.

“You said you weren’t following him anymore,” he tries again. “You said that, Zayn. And then… what, you were tailing him when I called?” His eyes drift over Zayn’s thin, bloodstained tshirt and Adidas sweatpants, daring Zayn to lie and say he was working a tail already looking like this. “You tried to take him on yourself? Did he attack you?”

Zayn only shifts the bag of ice to his other hand and presses at his lip until he feels the sting. Until it starts to bleed again and he can taste it. _No, I was off the clock, he was staying at my place and I thought I was falling for him and yeah I had a dream where he killed me, but then I woke up and he kissed me like he meant it._

CJ sighs. He sets the cup of coffee down, since he knows without asking that Zayn needs one. That Zayn’s sarcastic ass would answer the question with something like, “Why do you even ask? I always want coffee, Ceej. You know this. Because I’ll sleep when I’m dead.” _You know me too well._

Zayn finally glances up at the table, still ignoring the man on the other side of the mirror. The coffee is steaming. Perfect color, which means CJ made it with the good creamer Zayn hides in the back of the station’s fridge. Not too sweet. Just the way he likes it. And that’s why he sniffs and hangs his head, as CJ makes for the door. His partner gives him everything and he gives nothing in return. All Zayn has done, ever since Destiny’s body showed up, was lie to his partner. Over and over again.

He knows he has to give in. He can’t keep carrying all of this on his back. It’s too heavy. It hurts.

“Ceej,” he mumbles, his voice rough, vocal cords sounding like they’ve been sliced clean through.

CJ turns to look at him expectantly, the dark circles under his eyes making him look like a sad puppy. Neither of them have slept. They’re running on fumes.

He can feel the tears gathering in his eyes as his partner stares at him. Through the haze of exhaustion, it takes everything in him to reach over to the desk.

Zayn finally nudges the file folder towards CJ.

“I gotta tell you,” he mumbles with a ragged sigh. “I gotta start from the beginning.”

Maybe Jesse reads his name on the file label, maybe he senses he’s about to be talked about. Jesse Klein, center of attention, focal point of Zayn’s entire childhood, packed up in a file folder. Zayn feels him whispering in his ear, as CJ comes back to the desk and grabs for it, confused and intrigued.

Maybe Jesse knows his story is about to be shared with someone else, picked apart and studied.

Zayn doesn’t try to shush him or swat at him to go away. He lets Jesse settle next to him, pretends he can feel his warmth, and closes his eyes as his partner flips open the long ago file at long last.

\---

 

_March 24, 2019  
7:33 am_

Zayn had never hit anyone as hard as he hit Harry the night before in his duplex. He’s not sure where it came from, the inertia that propelled him across the room, his phone not quite hung up thrown to the floor, fist raised. How he was suddenly overcome by the needs and wants of a violent person, the type of man he puts _in_ handcuffs, capable of hurting someone. It happened too fast for Harry to even react, his arms barely coming up to block it. Zayn punched him clean in the face, like he learned in the boxing classes he took years ago, getting him in the eye socket and nose at the same time.

Zayn didn’t catch himself afterwards, didn’t question it, his mind blank of emotion. He didn’t step back in awe and wonder how he did it. It was instinctual. He didn’t regret it all. Immediately after he threw the punch, he hit Harry again. And again. Harry fought back, finally shoved Zayn away, swinging his arms out just as hard. Hit after hit, both of them. They wrestled, eventually ended up on the floor, Zayn repeating “You fucking liar,” as Harry yelled, “I swear, I swear, I swear!” and “Zayn, stop!” to no avail.

But neither of them stopped. They fought hard, knocked into furniture, broke a lamp. In a tangle of limbs, they tore at each other. Punched and kicked and pushed, Zayn to cause pain, Harry to defend himself. Harry lost his breath when Zayn caught him right in the stomach. They both grunted as Harry’s elbow caught Zayn in the face, which split his bottom lip open right down the center.

Zayn was stronger. He managed to get Harry on his back, narrowly avoiding smacking the crown of Harry’s head against the coffee table, and punched him with a quick jab in the nose one last time to keep him still. Panting, Zayn sat up fully on his knees, one on the floor, one in the middle of Harry’s sternum, fists up like he was taught. Harry, dazed and broken, looked up at him with wide eyes, lungs heaving, blood seeping out of both nostrils. Exhausted and spent, he gave up. It took a few seconds for Zayn to breathe and find his voice. And when instructed, Harry rolled over onto his stomach with a pained groan and put his hands behind his back.

Zayn had never grabbed his cuffs faster in his life.

The only thing Harry said on the ride to the station, from Zayn’s backseat awkwardly sitting forward to accommodate his arms, was simple.

“I didn’t kill her.”

Zayn didn’t respond and he didn’t look in the rear view mirror. He didn’t want to study Harry’s face as he said those words again. If he had, he would’ve reached back there and choked Harry to death.

That was their last interaction.

Zayn now paces in the hall near 3, wide-awake again after the coffee jolt. He’s wearing his back up black pants and white button up, the items of clothing he keeps at the station, for when he gets called into court last minute to testify. He tugs his tie, then at the white-cuffed fabric around each wrist, his bones aching from hitting Harry so hard over and over. He wants to jump right out of his skin, as he paces and contemplates how fucked up he must look. How if anyone came across him as they arrived for their shifts, his face swollen and bruised, they’d think he was the one attacked instead of the attacker.

CJ put him through their signature rapid fire questioning, once he got to the last page in Jesse’s file. His eyes bugged out of their sockets, stunned, at the information Zayn kept close for all the time they’ve known each other. It was fair, after he had been kept in the dark for so long. Once he saw the first few pages of the police report, with the Klein’s address in full view, it was like he knew immediately to pay attention. In a rush, CJ flipped through everything: the crime scene breakdown, photos of Jesse’s small body there on the floor, Zayn’s testimony. He gripped a photo of Tim Bates in one hand, and adolescent Zayn in the other, as he looked up at Zayn, barely breathing. In the end, once he slapped the folder shut, Zayn readied himself and told CJ what it all meant.

Yes, Zayn had been in that house before. Many times. His best friend died there, he was the one to find him, and Tim Bates did it. It was an open-and-shut case. So when another dead body showed up in the same house, in the same position, for Zayn to see with his own two eyes, Zayn knew.

_I did something. Or maybe I didn’t do something. Maybe I did something wrong. I hurt someone and now they want to hurt me._

CJ actually reached a hand out and gripped Zayn by the shoulder, overwhelmed, when he told him about the flowers and map pieces. How they showed up after they found Destiny’s flowers at the club, without any locations marked on them, no clue of what they lead to. How he’s being taunted, played with, like a rat in a cage.

But then it lead to the inevitable conversations of why Zayn didn’t tell CJ sooner, why Harry had become so important to Zayn, what the fuck did roses have to do with anything? Why a map? A map to where? _How_ did Harry do it? _Why?_ Zayn told CJ about the wild theory he had concocted of Harry’s motive, the one with him as the jealous ex-lover, a man scorned by Destiny and her new guy from the club, lashing out in a hot rage, stabbing her to get even. But CJ, just as pragmatic, agreed that the theory didn’t make sense, _none_ of it made sense, even as they then whispered the logistics of it back and forth to see if speaking the theory out loud could somehow make it true.

It was exhausting.

Regardless of what it all meant, Zayn and CJ were the lead detectives in Destiny Houthakker’s murder investigation. They submitted a male’s DNA sample to their lab, which came back positive as a match to DNA found on Destiny’s bed sheets. Harry Edward Styles, Roommate 1. Who Zayn had beaten the shit out of and then threw in a room without windows for about nine hours.

There was more to be done, more to be said, between them. Namely, why Zayn had Harry in his house and the fact that he was minutes away from fucking Harry for the first time. CJ didn’t deserve to only know half of Zayn’s fucked up life over the last week, how Harry got close, how Zayn kept him there.

But first they need to question Harry Styles, formally, once and for all, to put the pieces together. To get his story, his real story, about what he did. Objectively and emotionally removed. They had to do it now, before they call their sergeant and get _fucked_ for going against protocol. As if on cue, CJ comes around the corner with a cup of water and Destiny’s file in his hand, probably itching to reach for his phone and get permission to do this.

“Ready?” CJ asks nervously.

“Yeah.”

“I’m gonna hang back. You do your thing and I’ll be there to watch,” CJ nods, the good cop to Zayn’s bad.

Zayn exhales a breath and grabs the file from him. It’s time to be Detective Malik again, even with a busted face and a bloody lip. Sure of himself, steady hands, zero romantic feelings for Harry Styles.

As is customary, Zayn raps a few knuckles on the door to announce himself. When he walks into the interrogation room, CJ close behind, he realizes he hasn’t looked at Harry for a few hours.

What he sees is a shell of a person: Harry in his tshirt and jeans, his head down with greasy hair hanging limply in his face, chin to his chest. He sniffs a bit, looking up and blinking slowly, as Zayn and CJ settle themselves across from him at the table. Zayn sees someone he doesn’t recognize under the harsh halogen lights: Harry with bloodshot eyes from lack of sleep, dried blood above his lip, a bruise forming from Zayn’s first hit to his eye socket.

He wonders what Harry sees as he stares back at him.

CJ nudges the Styrofoam cup of water towards Harry’s clasped, cuffed hands. Harry’s movements are slow, languid, like he can barely keep his head up. But he accepts it and gulps down the entire thing, his hands shaking, the metal cuffs rattling together. One of his knuckles bloody. He nods to CJ as a thank you.

Zayn doesn’t miss any of this. He picks up on all the little movements of Harry Styles, someone so foreign to him even though he had him in a loving, tender embrace just the night before. They kissed and had dinner and did the fucking dishes together. And now they’re in 3, with Harry trembling from the chill in the air. Zayn, staring at him like he did that first day, to assess. To find the hidden truth.

Jesse whispers to him, to focus. So he does. He blinks and adjusts his spare court tie, the navy blue one his father gifted him when he was promoted to detective that he keeps in his desk.

“So,” Zayn eventually starts, trying to keep his voice level, to hide the shakiness he feels in his bones. Tries to pretend like he’s not bloodied and bruised from Harry’s hands. He opens Destiny’s file to move the contents out onto the table. “Do you know why you’re here?”

They both recognize the formality of this, Detective Malik back in full force, no smiles or quips. He doesn’t speak to Harry in a tender way. It’s harsh, here in 3. Cold. Clinical. Harry winces at it.

Staring down at the table, he shakes his head.

“You don’t know why you’re here,” Zayn says it like a statement. “Really.”

“No,” Harry mumbles.

“You offered your DNA to me, Harry,” Zayn says, sitting forward. He wants to make sure CJ understands this part, and that he wasn’t lying the day before when he said he didn’t take it against Harry’s will.

“I know.”

“So this shouldn’t be hard for you to understand.”

“I didn’t kill her,” Harry repeats himself, like a fucking parrot. Voice emotionless and quiet, so quiet CJ leans in. “I don’t know what you found, or what you think it means. But I didn’t kill her.”

Zayn grits his teeth, his jaw jumping, so he smooths a hand over it. He told himself to be level, to handle this. That’s why they waited so long, to get calm and to discuss theories, to let Harry get comfortable, lulled into a dual sense of unease and exhaustion, ready to spill his guts.

He almost yells at Harry to be a fucking man and look at him while he gets questioned, but he doesn’t. He instead moves photos around on the table, turning them so they face Harry, shoving them into his line of sight. Destiny’s lifeless form from an overhead shot in the entryway, blood pooled around her; a close up of her face once she got to the morgue, eyes wide open and cloudy before Knight physically had to shut her eyelids; and a close up of the gaping, bloody wound to her chest.

Harry begins to breathe heavier, like he’s scared, like he wants to shut his eyes so he doesn’t have to look.

CJ shifts in his chair.

“Then you tell me,” Zayn says, moving a different picture of Destiny’s bedroom towards Harry’s hands, “why your semen was found on Destiny’s sheets.”

The three of them all hold their breath. Evidence. Zayn stares him down. _You were there, I knew you were a fucking liar, say something._

Harry really does close his eyes then, as he sits back in his chair. Zayn can finally see his fucking face again, full on and up close. Red and splotchy, bruised, injured from his fists. The beautiful boy he wanted to keep so close. To keep safe.

Zayn waits for it. He doesn’t push.

When Harry opens his eyes, he seems more awake. More level headed. He steels himself, like he needs to build up to something, and gestures his cuffed hands towards the picture. It’s of Destiny’s bed, her pink sheets all rumpled and slept in, her bedspread falling towards the floor, before the team stripped and bagged it. They have definitive proof that Harry Styles was once in that bed, traces left behind, a release he was too dumb to clean up after.

Harry’s shaking hands try to move the photo away, but Zayn smacks at it to keep it in place. Harry stills his movements and takes a deep breath.

“I can explain that.”

“You can explain?”

“Yes.”

“By all means,” Zayn waves a hand, sitting back. Good cop CJ doesn’t mirror his body language though, instead leaning in close, keeping engaged and alert, like he’s there if Harry needs him.

Harry licks his lips and then sucks one of them into his mouth, moving forward.

“Destiny and I,” he says timidly, “slept together. A few times.”

CJ shifts in his chair, which Zayn reads as his admission of surprise, to match his own. _He’s actually admitting this part. This is actually happening. I didn’t have to keep pestering him to fess up to it._

“You slept together,” Zayn repeats.

“Yes,” Harry nods. “I just… Sometimes when we were both around the house, we’d hang out in the living room and talk, or… you know, we’d make food together and have dinner. We like the same beer. And – and a few times, that lead to…” He brings his hands up so he can scratch at his temple, before gesturing to the photo. To the sheets he stained. “That lead to her room.”

“You slept together,” Zayn repeats yet again, placating him with a nod of his own.

“Yes.”

“And you never thought to mention this? The fact that you were closer than casual roommates, that you were in her room, in her _bed_ , and then she ends up stabbed in your entryway?”

Harry slides his chair closer to the table, the legs making a horrible scratching sound against the tiles.

“That’s why I never said,” Harry rushes out, staring right at Zayn like he has to understand. Like he’s not talking to a detective, but to the guy he wants to date. “I knew it would look bad.”

Zayn blinks at him.

“I just… I told you, when I came down the stairs that morning and saw her, and heard Niall screaming, I _knew_. I knew it would look bad, me being in my room, me being so close, and I… I knew if I told you, _I_ would look bad, and I…” Harry says in a rush, shaking his head like a maniac.

Zayn continues to blink.

Harry bites his lip again and Zayn’s pretty sure he’s about to cry.

“I left it out. That’s it, that’s all. And I’m sorry for that, I am. I just left that one part out because I knew it would look even worse. It was only a few times, it was like… when we were bored, it wasn’t anything. It was – Destiny was so sweet. And nice,” Harry rambles, looking up and over Zayn’s head, distraught. “And I – I liked that, some nights. And then – I also felt guilty, like I might’ve taken advantage of her being a bit lonely. I felt guilty that I might’ve lead her on, that I _hurt_ her. But then she seemed so busy with work and I didn’t see her much lately, like maybe she wasn’t into me after all, which was good. We didn’t… we _hadn’t_ , lately. I thought it was done.”

Zayn is reminded of his first conversation with Harry. The way he fidgeted and cried, the way he looked away when Zayn asked if Destiny was loud, the way his face reacted when Zayn asked if he had hurt Destiny. _You knew she was loud because you fucked her. You were fucking her. You knew how she sounded in bed, you felt her wanting more, you hurt her. And you knew I would catch onto it._

When Zayn doesn’t say anything and CJ only eyes him from his chair, Harry barrels on unprompted, like they always hope a suspect will.

Harry leans even closer, like he knows Zayn’s mind had just been bouncing back and forth between Detective Malik and Zayn the Jealous Lover.

“We were friendly. It wasn’t a serious thing. The last time it happened was two weeks before she died. Two weeks,” he says to just Zayn, holding up two fingers. “But I did _not_ kill her. I didn’t do it.”

Zayn doesn’t know what to do with the Harry Styles sitting in front of him, the one in cuffs. He didn’t complain about being held overnight. He still hasn’t asked for a lawyer or inquired if he’s being charged. Zayn’s not sure they _could_ charge him at this point, not without more evidence, since the semen was found in her room and she was killed so far away from it. Harry’s DNA wasn’t found in or on her, she hadn’t had sex for the two days before her death, the girls at the club didn’t recognize him, so technically…

CJ nudges him, aware that Zayn had gone off somewhere in his head, and moves to gather the photos. They need to leave. To strategize.

To see if their instincts match up.

But then Harry practically lunges forward.

“I felt guilty,” he says, actually reaching his hands out to grab Zayn’s wrist. “I felt so fucking guilty that I couldn’t help her. That I wasn’t there to save her. I told you that. I _told_ you how awful I felt. I swear to fucking God, Zayn. I didn’t do this. I couldn’t hurt her, I couldn’t hurt _anyone!_ You know I didn’t do this.”

Bewildered, Zayn pulls his hand away and stands up. He can’t look at Harry anymore. Not right now. He can’t hear about Harry’s guilt over the past, over his inaction and ineptitude. _I was guilty too. I don’t know how to connect with you over this. I can’t._

He has to leave.

“You _know_ I didn’t,” Harry calls after them as they exit the room. “You _know_ me, Zayn. You know I couldn’t have done this!”

Zayn quickly shuts the door with shaking hands to block out Harry’s screams. And he realizes as he dry heaves a bit in the hallway that he doesn’t know what he thinks. He has no fucking clue what he knows, because his gut keeps leading him the wrong way. His instincts, fucked up and all over the place, his heart and his brain at odds.

But when he looks up and sees CJ’s face, the knowing look there, he knows he can’t have a minute alone to figure it out. He knows he has to tell CJ the rest. The truth about how he got Harry to the station so quickly.

The fact that Zayn _does_ know Harry.

He knows him.

\---

 

_March 24, 2019  
8:17 am_

_I didn’t kill her. I didn’t kill her. I didn’t kill her._

Back at his desk, Zayn presses his palms into his aching eyeballs, his spine curling in on itself, as he feels the beginning processes of a shut down. All systems failing. He then presses at his temples and remembers what Luke said about people not being cars, and how that’s absolutely not true. Because he distinctly feels like someone trying to start a car with a dead battery: what’s the point, it’s useless, you can’t move, you’ll need a jump. A jolt.

He can feel CJ’s hand on his shoulder, can vaguely hear him asking for answers, details, facts and figures for him to lay out on his desk like a case file. But the blood rushing in his ears is hot and steady, his muscles are all on fire, and he can’t get Harry’s face out of his head. Because Harry isn’t a case, the thing they started isn’t a “situation” to break down in a meeting room, they don’t have any pictures to study or go over. Flash after flash of Harry’s face, the expressions he makes that Zayn wanted to sear into his memory. Not the face Zayn punched earlier, the guilty one attached to the murder suspect in his living room. But the face of the boy with the scar on his hand, the one who smiled at him on his doorstep and made him realize _I think I need you here._

But then he flashes to the bloodied face of Harry Styles, handcuffed in 3, pleading with everything he had for Zayn to believe him. Again. The way Zayn believed him before, when he finally gave up his stupid search for answers that Harry couldn’t give. Because Harry didn’t know anything.

CJ tries to speak to him again, but Zayn shakes his head furiously. He has to process. Analyze. Listen to Harry instead of trying to listen to himself, the notes he made, the wrong he needs to right. He closes his eyes and breathes. He needs to remember how he felt after the flowers showed up, regardless of what Destiny’s sheets had to say:

_I fucked it up. My gut instincts were flawed. This case is tied to me and only me. This happened because of me. I did not know Harry Styles previously and he didn’t know me either. We had never met. Harry isn’t stupid. He wouldn’t have come to my house if killed Destiny. No flowers, no fucking with me. Harry doesn’t have a motive. Harry isn’t the guy from the club._

_Harry didn’t do it. He didn’t know about Jesse. There’s no connection._

_I let the anger I have for myself get the best of me. Instead of hurting myself, I punched Harry Styles. My Harry Styles. Harry Harry Harry Harry._

That’s what brings Zayn back, that tug behind his eyes that means he needs to open them. Like Jesse is there, about to flick him in the forehead, like he used to do when Zayn fell asleep while watching a movie.

He opens his eyes and peers up at CJ, who looks worried sick. And not about Harry or their case, but about Zayn’s well being.

“You gotta fill me in on the rest, Zayn,” CJ says with a resigned shrug, eyes desperate. “All of it.”

Zayn swallows and nods.

CJ hurries to bring his chair closer to Zayn’s desk, as the entire station revs up for the morning. Various department heads moving in and out of offices, uniforms switching shifts, their captain an hour away. They need to hurry and as they lock eyes, they both know it.

The irony is not lost on Zayn, as he sits across from CJ behind his desk, heads tucked together so no one can overhear. How earlier they sat together as a two-man team against Harry their perp, grilling him for answers, and now CJ is essentially doing the same thing to Zayn.

Zayn cracks his back and settles into it, reaching for a cold cup of coffee he can’t place the origins of. CJ exhales a few surprised expletives while Zayn keeps his voice low and breaks it down, piece by piece.

CJ hears all of it: Zayn’s first instincts when he talked to Harry at the scene, his obsession, following him to the bar, the times Harry showed up at his place unannounced, the fact that Harry _stayed_ with Zayn. The… thing between them. The beginnings of an actual relationship, maybe, or maybe just the foundation of trust. How it was going well, until Zayn took CJ’s call while Harry was in his kitchen. The DNA fallout. The fight.

CJ could handle Zayn not sharing Jesse’s file with him, his connection to the house, the roses and pieces of map. He understood because he knew it was terrifying, Zayn being targeted, stalked, messed with. It wasn’t _right_ , they both knew Zayn hindered the investigation, but he got it.

But now he knows about Zayn wanting Harry beyond their case. He sees the strain in Zayn’s bloodshot eyes, after questioning Harry in 3, immediately after his emotions got the better of him. How he beat on Harry because it was like he was overtaken with his first reaction from the scene. Like it came back full force, the roles Zayn saw them playing: Harry the guilty murderer and Zayn the one to catch him.

Zayn brought Harry into the station in cuffs, but he doesn’t deserve to be in 3.

They can’t keep Harry much longer. They know they can’t arrest him, not without more evidence. They need to get Harry’s statement and then let him go.

They lock eyes.

“Are we on the same page now?” CJ says in a low voice, gesturing to Zayn, using his expression to say _I don’t think he’s guilty, I really don’t, this doesn’t make sense and you know it._ They’re probably both thinking back to the day they sat together in the Klein living room and CJ had to tell Zayn to give it up, to focus on the real man who did this. To let Harry go.

_If only I had followed your fucking advice, Ceej._

Zayn wrings his hands together and exhales. His knuckles still hurt and he’s getting a pain behind his left eye. Harry did that.

He has to be honest with himself, after Harry grabbed his hand and pleaded for Zayn to believe him, what he’s known ever since he heard the words _I didn’t kill her, I just felt guilty that I couldn’t help._

“Yeah,” Zayn says slowly, with a determined frown. “I’m with you, Ceej.”

CJ blinks.

“It’s not him.”

“It’s not,” Zayn agrees, relieved that they both have said it out loud for the final time.

And because CJ is the best fucking partner in the entire goddamn city, he goes even further and gives Zayn a little more to go on. To let go of the tight ball in his chest that’s screaming at him to be careful, _but what if he did do it, what if he’s still playing with me, how will I ever trust him again, what if he hurt her, what if he hurt me, what if what if what if…_

“I’ve said from the beginning that it didn’t make sense,” CJ says gently. “Like we said, it was wrong place, wrong time. He was an idiot for lying about their relationship, but… he has no connection to you, Zayn. He has no reason to do this to you.”

Zayn nods and sighs with relief, his chin shaking. CJ gets it, how hard it’s been to carry it all.

“We’re gonna find the guy who did this,” CJ says as he brings both hands up to Zayn’s shoulders, eyes saying _to you and Destiny both._ “We will.”

And since it’s fucking Honesty Hour, Zayn leans into it a bit to chase the pressure, and whispers the question he’s been too afraid to face.

“What if he finds me first?”

CJ doesn’t respond and just moves his chair closer, their knees knocking together. He presses a hand to the crown of Zayn’s hung head, trying to hide his face so none of the uniforms see him crying. CJ positions his body so no one can see, so no one can whisper about Malik, who the week before puked at a scene and now cries into his own shirt.

In the end, once Zayn powers back on and wipes at his face, CJ tries to move away and grab Destiny’s file, now the DNA report and map pieces added in. Probably to go into 3 and release Harry. Let him know that he wasn’t under arrest since everything they had was circumstantial, but that he wasn’t completely cleared. They’d have to present all of the evidence to their sergeant first, which would probably go over just as shitty as they imagine, and Harry may get called in once more in the future to give further details. Harry, well within his rights, could tell CJ he wants to press charges on Detective Zayn Malik, for excessive force and unlawful citizen’s arrest.

But Zayn looks up at his partner and shakes his head.

“I’ll do it,” he sniffs.

It’s time to let Harry go.

 

\---

 

_March 24, 2019  
8:44 am_

When Zayn once again enters the interrogation room, he expects to see Harry the same as before: his head down with greasy hair hanging in his face, chin to his chest. Bloodshot eyes from lack of sleep, dried blood above his lip, a bruise forming from Zayn’s first hit to his eye socket.

But it’s a new Harry. A different Harry.

Zayn knew from the very beginning that Harry Styles had the ability to change his face when he saw fit. To slap on a smile, or a frown, or cry his eyes out so no one could say he didn’t while at the crime scene. He was good, on stage and off. Always so good. And he’s good now, still sitting there at the table in the center of the room.

He doesn’t seem as exhausted or upset, not curling in on himself like before. He’s sitting up, cuffed hands sitting calmly in his lap, back straight, eyes set and boring into Zayn like he could kill him with just a look.

Zayn tries to keep his face steady as he sits across from Harry, who tracks his every move. He sets down everything he brought in with him: a bag of ice, a cup of water, and a protein bar from CJ’s desk. Sets them out in a little row, within Harry’s reach. He’s not sure what he would call it exactly: a peace offering, an apology, a simple gesture to show some compassion, after keeping him in this silent cinder-block room all night. He’s no longer the bad cop to CJ’s good, assessing and picking a suspect apart.

He’s just Zayn Malik. Apologizing in his own way.

Harry looks down at each item, blinks, and then focuses right back on Zayn’s face. He must see the five o’clock shadow, the bruising under Zayn’s eyes getting darker, the cut in his lip finally starting to scab over.

And it’s then that Zayn fully understands where Harry’s head is. Harry has moved on from sadness. He’s no longer a suspect crying for forgiveness, pleading for someone to believe him, begging to be cleared.

Now, he’s an innocent man with a busted face, still being held without cause, sitting across from the person he had just started to trust and open up to.

He’s fucking _pissed._

Zayn frowns down at the table. He knows CJ is behind the two-way mirror over Harry’s shoulder, waiting for the morning’s CO to arrive. He knows CJ is watching him, to see how he’ll react now that they’ve decided as a team to get Harry’s final statement and let him go. And he knows that Harry knows, that he’s close to being uncuffed.

Zayn nudges the bag of ice forward.

“I shouldn’t have hit you,” he says finally, voice level. _It’s not quite an apology, I know, but it’s all I got for now._

He thinks Harry might keep his mouth shut, eyes hard, until the cuffs are off and he’s being escorted from the building. He’s well within his rights to keep silent, after such treatment. He hasn’t been charged, and they both know he won’t be. He screamed at Zayn’s retreating form earlier, pleading for Zayn’s understanding, and he must hate it now, how vulnerable that looked. And how he won’t do it again. Beg or plead or ask if Zayn believes him.

Zayn’s pretty sure as he stares at him, that Harry will never ask for Zayn’s mercy ever again. He may never speak another word to Zayn.

But Harry surprises him, reaching for the ice.

“You thought I hurt her,” he responds with a slight shrug, his face and tongue both swollen, obstructing his speech. He uses both hands to bring the ice to his eye, face wincing at it in pain, before changing back to anger. “But no, you shouldn’t have hit me.”

“You hit me back,” Zayn frowns, surprised at how he feels the need to defend himself.

Harry shifts the ice down to his cheek, and then his mouth, as he glares at Zayn with one hooded eye.

“I didn’t exactly have a choice, did I?”

“I guess that’s fair,” Zayn mumbles, embarrassed.

He exhales and shifts the water and protein bar closer. _You should eat, you’re dehydrated, you need fresh air and the sun on your skin, you’re too pale, you need sleep, you’re hurt and bloody and my knuckles caused it._ Jesse settles close by, Zayn can feel it even in the stagnant room. He’s there to help Zayn be strong. If he has to let Harry go in more ways than one, it’s nice to have Jesse there.

Harry still doesn’t reach for the water or food, just holds onto his ice. He looks like he wants to throw all of it back in Zayn’s fucking face, in fact. But he doesn’t.

“What time is it?” he eventually asks, eyes drifting to the window-less walls like there should be a clock in here somewhere.

Zayn glances to his watch.

“Almost nine.”

Harry’s jaw jumps at that, he tilts his head down slightly, fucking livid. He must realize just how long Zayn has kept him in 3. Alone and cuffed. It’s not right, it’s not legal, it’s a fucking tragedy.

Zayn’s eye twitches, ashamed. He’s just about to lay it all out, apologize as a detective first and then as the boy whose house Harry stayed at, tell him to call a lawyer if he sees fit. Zayn deserves it, whatever punishment comes his way.

But Harry surprises him again.

“I thought we were past this,” he says with zero emotion in his voice. Anger gone. Now just blank and empty.

Zayn doesn’t respond, so Harry continues.

“I know you thought I was guilty at first. But I thought we were past it. I opened my mouth for you, I offered it. I tried to tell you the truth, about feeling guilty and sad. And you looked me in the eye and said you believed me. You said I wasn’t your suspect anymore.”

“Harry,” Zayn tries, his head shaking without his consent, thoughts bumping together before he can voice them. _But my gut told me it was you, I can’t help how I felt, I wanted you, your DNA showed up, I lashed out._

“No,” Harry cuts him off, taking the ice from his face and tossing it back to the table. “You _said_ you believed me. So when you get a call from someone saying my DNA showed up somewhere, your first instinct should _not_ be to fuck my face up.”

Zayn winces.

“You were supposed to be on my side,” Harry says a bit quieter, maybe so CJ can’t hear, voice rough. He leans in like he wants to say more, but it’s Zayn’s turn to cut him off.

“This is my job, Harry,” Zayn leans in upset. “I see shit in front of me and I process it. You _lied_ to my face, you fucking lied to me at the scene and every minute since, and when your fucking bodily fluids shows up on the sheets of a murder victim, I react like a cop. I’m a fucking _cop_.”

Harry grits his teeth and sits back in his chair, shaking his head towards the ceiling. He’s at the end of his rope, his eyes red and leaking, the bruise blooming halfway up his face into his hairline.

“I can’t do this anymore. I can’t _say_ this anymore. I didn’t fucking kill her, it wasn’t me. I was asleep. I didn’t hear anything,” Harry says to the light above his head. “I couldn’t hurt her, I couldn’t hurt anyone. It’s not possible.”

Zayn inhales sharply, as Harry brings his face back down. Angry again. _Fuck. You couldn’t hurt anyone and now you know what I’m capable of. You didn’t hurt Destiny, and I ended up with your blood spatter on my face._

Jesse flicks him on the forehead. _Come on Zayn, do I need to spell it out for you?_ Zayn frowns and looks down at his hands, because no, Jesse does not need to explain it to him. He has to trust himself again. Because on Day 1, his first instinct was that Harry was a liar, and he was right. His next instinct, when it came to Harry Styles, was that he didn’t kill his roommate. He felt it somewhere deep, in his bones, that it wasn’t Harry. He has to trust himself now. He has to trust his ghosts pushing them together, the magnetism of their little dance.

He has to trust Jesse, who wants him to apologize like a fucking grown up. To tell Harry how sorry he is.

_I don’t think you did it, not anymore, I swear. I should’ve known you couldn’t do it, not after the last few days. It wasn’t you, I believe you, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry._

Zayn should say it out loud. He should say it, make Harry believe it, grab his hands and kiss his fingers. He should kiss the moon scar and remind Harry of that night together, how they connected and melded into one singular person on his couch.

But they’re still in 3 and Harry is still in Zayn’s handcuffs. He would probably throw Zayn’s hands off of his, scream to never touch him again, hurl every insult in the book back in Zayn’s face. CJ and his boss are probably both behind the mirror now. Watching. Waiting to see what Harry will do, now that the ball is in his court. He could demand that _Zayn_ be the one put in handcuffs.

Harry finally looks at him again, when he sees that Zayn hasn’t responded.

They lock eyes.

“Search my room,” Harry announces, louder so anyone behind the mirror can hear him.

Zayn’s jaw drops at the curve ball.

“Search my room, I don’t care. If you need my permission, if you want it, here it is: take my key and go to the house. I haven’t been there in days. Look through all of my shit. You won’t find anything because I have nothing to hide.”

“But…”

“Finger print me. Hook me up to a polygraph,” Harry says even louder, moving to put his hands up on the table. “Test me. Ask me every question you can think of. I’ll do it. Let’s do it now.”

This second wind Harry has somehow pulled out of his ass, the manic look in his eye, almost scares Zayn. He feels himself shifting away from Harry, his shirt sticking to his back, his palms sweaty, as Harry finally chugs down the water and rips open the protein bar. Manic energy.

This isn’t how he expected Harry to act. Harry, as always, surprises Zayn and keeps him on his toes. Like when roses showed up and Harry acted like he didn’t care. Or when Zayn lunged at him with his fists up and all Harry could do was take the first few hits, dumbfounded.

It’s not necessary, everything Harry has offered. Since he’s not under arrest and the evidence is shaky at best, they don’t need to search his room or bring in Detective Vogel to strap Harry to a chair as they ask him personal questions.

But Zayn and CJ both know the case as it stands is pretty fucked. Having Harry Styles completely and irretrievably off the table could only help. It will shift their focus, and the entire case, towards someone else. To find the man from the club once and for all. To find the connection to Zayn.

It’s also not lost on Zayn that Harry probably offered this, to get himself as far away from this case, this station, that house, and Zayn, as fast as he can. He wants out. This is his out. This is how he clears himself so he never has to look back.

Zayn needs to let Harry go from this cramped room. He needs to prepare himself to let Harry go in every sense of the word. Harry never deserved this, or any of the shit Zayn’s been hiding from him. It wasn’t just CJ that Zayn let down by keeping his secrets close.

Harry must read Zayn’s mind, the way his eyes have glazed over in thought.

“Do it,” he says as he licks his lips, staring Zayn down once more. The tone in Harry’s voice, more than anything else, has Zayn swallowing the lump in his throat.

“Harry, if you’re – if you’re sure, then I think – ”

Harry plants his elbows on the table and lifts his fists up in front of Zayn’s face. To uncuff him and get a move on.

“Do it.”

In the few seconds that follow, as the two beaten and bruised men stare at each other, all Zayn can think about is reaching for Harry’s offered hands. To kiss them, to hold on tight and keep him close.

He finally opens his mouth, to do as Jesse said, and say sorry.

But Harry cuts him off, his face in a grimace. Then blank. Empty and passive and perfect.

“That’s it,” he says quietly. “That’s all I have to say to you.”

Zayn nods because if he sits in this room any longer, he’s pretty sure his lungs will collapse. He’s been dismissed and that’s it, then. It’s done. They’re still in 3 and Harry is still in Zayn’s handcuffs. And Zayn is not what Harry wants anymore.

Zayn reaches for the key ring attached to his belt.

 

\---

 

_March 24, 2019  
10:08 am_

It’s not quite a panic attack, but it’s close.

Like the time when Zayn was sixteen and he went to that house party, where he had his first mixed drink. Lisa and Lucy Duerler, the twins from the class below him, threw a birthday party for themselves. It was at their house on Hickory, not far from Zayn’s old grade school, where he met Jesse, which when he thought back on it, was sort of a sign.

Zayn remembers being in their backyard by a fire pit that night. He had a drink with vodka in one hand and a lit cigarette in the other. A Marlboro Red. His first brand of cigarette, before he knew better. A few people had been talking to him, quiet Zayn Malik and his cute smile, the one he saved for special occasions. Gorgeous and slightly broody, Zayn finally at a party, getting drunk like the rest of them.

None of those people knew what he did, what he didn’t do, when he was thirteen. And those were the kind of people Zayn did best around. It was a nice party, nothing crazy, something Zayn should’ve looked back on as a fond memory. He wasn’t anxious or feeling blood in his shoe, he was fine, everything was fine, even his new therapist said so. And then in his hazy drunken state, somehow John Paul Bondegard, a guy a year older than Zayn, was standing next to him laughing.

JP was so nice, everyone thought of him as a close friend, really smart and artistic. He could play three instruments and his two front teeth were a little too big, which made his smile a little lopsided and a lot gorgeous.

And Zayn might have said that out loud, how mouth affectations were his favorite, like Leonardo DiCaprio and how when he said certain words, his bottom lip twitched to the side. Zayn was still coming to terms with things like that, saying his honest thoughts about boys out loud. But he had been drinking and felt brave and JP was gay and wouldn’t stop staring at him.

JP leaned in and said something in his ear, Zayn can’t even remember now what it was, but he remembers JP’s hand on his stomach. Like he had gotten close to specifically touch Zayn, to place his hand somewhere other than a shoulder or an arm, a place no one could dismiss as friendly or casual.

Zayn remembers his lungs constricting, a flash of light in front of his eyes like someone had taken a picture too close, the way his shoulders seized up. Like all he could do was hold himself upright, with a boy so close and smiling at him and smelling his cigarette smoke. His brain flashed to Jesse Klein and their one and only shared cigarette, how he was the first and only boy Zayn ever wanted to touch, for him to touch back, over and over again. He thought about the little plastic house in Jesse’s backyard where he had his first kiss, but wished it had been with Jesse instead. How he spent his whole childhood, first unaware, and then confused about being bisexual. His whole sense of self shifted, distraught when his first crush, his best friend, his entire world, died a few feet from where Zayn slept. In those early days, sometimes his overwhelming guilt was hard to place: _am I guilty for letting Jesse die, guilty for moving on and letting Jesse go, guilty over liking another boy, or boys in general?_

A doctor or two helped him figure it out eventually, but it wasn’t an easy road.

That night, it wasn’t a panic attack that sent him home to his bedroom, but it was close. He shut himself up in his closet so his mom wouldn’t hear him, something he was used to doing for the first sixth months after Jesse died. His mom always took a Valium on nights when Zayn was especially bad, and he didn’t want her to worry. He dry heaved and cried and pulled at his hair, hidden under his coats and nice shirts, after those thoughts of Jesse came rushing back and he could still feel John Paul’s hand on his stomach. He repeated words over and over, tried for his “happy thought,” but came up blank. That was a long night.

It’s the same feeling now as he looks down at his feet, the Klein house towering over him like it did when he was a child. When he used to see it as a fucking mansion, a castle full of secret hiding places and trap doors.

It feels the same. Lungs constricted and filled with dread, the sun too bright. Full of about fifty different emotions that were too hard to place, too heavy. He swore to himself he’d never come back, and yet now here he is. Willingly. He just couldn’t go home yet, he couldn’t see his mess of a living room, Harry’s clothes and his phone tossed on the table, the roses. So many roses.

Zayn didn’t even need to tell CJ that he couldn’t be there to watch Harry’s polygraph. He didn’t want to stand behind a mirror and see Harry get hooked up to the machine, the look in his eye as he was asked question after question. _Is your name Harry Edward Styles? Do you live at a boarding house on 32 nd Avenue? Did you know Destiny Houthakker? Were you in a relationship with Destiny Houthakker? Did you kill Destiny Houthakker? Do you know who killed Destiny Houthakker?_ Zayn couldn’t stand to see Harry’s yes and no answers, the jump of the needles on the polygraph machine, the blank expression on his face as he cleared himself. The reason he was in that position, exhausted and bloody, was because of Zayn and his inability to find the real culprit.

CJ just knew, that when Zayn finally exited 3 and joined the small group of COs and their sergeant, to ask their permission to be in charge of it. CJ offered himself so Zayn could leave, get some air, avoid his life, to go to the house and look around Harry’s room.

All Zayn said as he grabbed his keys and folio was that he’d make sure to wear gloves, if he needed to touch anything. He’d call for back up if he found a clue. He’d do his job correctly.

But as it is, Zayn didn’t bring gloves or evidence bags with him. He knows he won’t need them and he knows he has to do it alone.

He stands on the front walk and finally looks up at the Klein house and all of its uncovered windows. He takes a deep breath and glances to his left and to his right, eyes scanning, with the ever present thoughts of _he could be anywhere, he could be following you all the time, every day, keep your eyes peeled._

There isn’t anyone around. Cars pass behind him, but he doesn’t see anyone watching.

It’s muscle memory that gets him inside, stepping right over the place Jesse and Destiny both died, looking around at the sunlight streaming in through uncovered windows. The owners of the house still kept the furniture in shared spaces, the same couch and chairs to his left. It all seemed so sad and empty. The Klein house was never meant to be empty of people. But then he’s walking up the creaking stairs, the walls bare of any photos of children, everything too quiet. He passes the open door to Destiny’s empty room, and thinks of chain locks and screwdrivers. He shoves Harry’s key into the new door knob Jesse never touched.

It’s no surprise that the room is arranged exactly as Jesse had it: the bed against the left wall, a low antique dresser to the right, a desk in the far corner beneath the two windows that meet there. Jesse never had a desk, but he kept his trunk in the same spot. The one he kept locked so none of his siblings would dig through it. It’s all the same, even where it’s different, the steps Zayn has to take to maneuver his way around the space. It’s that muscle memory again.

Zayn takes it all in, the room he used to know so well. Now it’s Harry’s. Weird furniture, unfamiliar curtains, a cream colored bedspread Jesse would’ve hated because he had a tendency to spill. The room is covered in Harry’s shit, his clothes and boots scattered around the wood floor. Zayn eyes the record player perched on a small table near the desk. Next to it, the stack of records in an old milk crate, one angled up, peeking out, like Harry had shoved it in there haphazardly as he changed his mind to listen to something else instead.

If this were any other case, Zayn would’ve brought Dalton or Shayla with him. They’d do a full physical sweep. He’d have them dusting for prints, opening drawers, rifling through the closet, bagging anything that looked remotely interesting. He’d be assessing the space, wondering if Jesse’s hiding places were still there: nooks and crannies under a floorboard, behind the dresser, on the top shelf of the closet. He’d search each and every one of them for the murder weapon, positive that Harry was stupid enough to keep the knife he stabbed Destiny with.

But Harry was right: there’s nothing to see here. Nothing to hide. There isn’t any evidence of someone rushing through to stash a knife, to clean up, to make the room look untouched and “natural.” Perps tend to do that: like when someone says “act natural,” they try to arrange the space the same way. Messy, but only just so. Organized chaos. Even if Harry had come back here within the last few days, after Zayn finally looked elsewhere for a suspect, there would at least be a semblance of a cover up.

This isn’t that kind of scene. It’s not a scene at all. It’s the bedroom of Destiny Houthakker’s roommate, just a room full of clothes, records, and a guitar. The room of a man too overwhelmed to return and pack up to move on.

The only thing out of place is a random dresser drawer, half open with various pairs of boxers bursting out of it, probably from when Harry came to collect some clothes before heading to a hotel. To get as far away from this house as he could.

Zayn does a final visual sweep. Picks it apart, fingers twitching like they know they should be taking notes, but aren’t. He glances down into the half open drawer next to Harry’s bed, to see a few condoms, Chapstick, a stray piece of gum, and some change. No journals or letters or bills. Nothing to see here.

The only item in Harry’s room that could potentially be linked to Destiny is a hair tie. A lone black hair tie, next to an empty beer bottle on the desk. Harry would probably say that it’s his, would remind Zayn that he’s never without a hair tie around his wrist, to put his hair up when it got in his way. Zayn hates that he knows that already.

Destiny isn’t here. There aren’t any clues of her to find, to sift through, to assess. Harry told the truth. It’s just a room that a young man inhabited because he was too broke to have an apartment to himself. If Destiny had ever stepped foot inside this space, Zayn would be surprised. He’ll write up his report later at the station, enter it into the system like CJ always does, and it’ll be short and sweet.

Zayn knows Harry didn’t hurt Destiny. It’s the hunch he should’ve trusted before locking Harry up inside a cell. His face floods with shame, at something he’ll never be able to take back. Yet another mistake he’ll have to pay for, since it’s unlikely Harry will be able to speak to him again without remembering his fists. He knows Harry wasn’t trying to hurt him, with roses or pieces of a map, that his true mistake somewhere along the line is only known to the strange man following him. Harry wasn’t a sociopath or a fraud. And even though Zayn still technically has to look over polygraph results with CJ and Mulcahy, before Harry is released, this is the final nail in the coffin.

Zayn looks around Jesse’s old room and sniffs. He wipes at his nose and his mouth, careful of his split lip, and flips the overhead light off.

As he heads out, he allows himself a few seconds to touch the wooden door frame, in the place where he once watched Jesse screw in half of a lock. He feels Jesse grab him on the shoulder and suddenly he’s not so upset to be back here again.

_Nice and safe, nice and safe, nice and safe._

\---

 

_March 24, 2019  
11:45 am_

The only thing that could possibly crack a smile out of Zayn while in his current predicament is a text from his dad. Zayn sits in his car in the alley behind his place and chews on his thumbnail, actually grinning as he looks down at his phone.

Yaser had sent him a picture that morning of his face: beard longer than ever, which Zayn is absolutely sure his mom hates because it means he’s in between jobs at the moment, laughing with a golden Oreo between his teeth. Apparently when Trisha was newly pregnant with Zayn, Yaser had randomly grabbed a package of on-sale golden Oreos while grocery shopping at Baker’s. And for whatever reason, she gravitated to that kind of cookie until the day Zayn was born. It was her one and only true pregnancy craving. Golden Oreos, stacked one on top of the other, until she could literally stack and eat them off the top of her belly as she watched Oprah each afternoon.

When she got pregnant a second and third time, she didn’t craved cookies at all. It wasn’t until later when he was a teenager, when late at night they’d sit up together at the kitchen table and stir hot chocolate in complete silence, Zayn’s heart cold and dead in his chest, that she told him. Once she saw the pregnancy tests turn positive and didn’t crave her cookies like before, she knew she’d lose them. She knew she wasn’t meant to have those babies. Just Zayn, just one. “My miracle boy,” she’d whisper to him when she put him to bed.

His mother doesn’t eat many sweets anymore, but Yaser still does. He still buys them, every time they run out, and keeps them in a cookie jar next to the stove. Every so often, he’ll send Zayn a photo of how he’s eating them: stacked like his mom used to do it, or on a plate in the shape of a star, or just one at a time as he sneaks it into his pocket, since he’s supposed to be watching his sugar intake.

Zayn pulls at the hair on his chin and smiles. If he had anything left, any stored tears in his body, he’d shed one then. For his parents and the cookies they keep buying, since they remind them of their one baby.

But he’s spent, he can’t muster the energy to cry again. He’s beginning to shut down once more, his entire body, mind, and spirit on the downturn. Once he left the Klein house and called CJ, who had said they were just getting into the final questions of the lie detector test, he knew he had to rest his eyes. CJ agreed, told him not to worry about being there to read over the results, even though he too was exhausted after the last few days. “I’ll handle Mulcahy. You just go home, Zayn. When we’re wrapped up here, once we’ve released him, I’ll call you and we’ll talk. Tell me… if anything seems off.”

CJ might as well of screamed _if there are roses on your doorstep, if there’s another piece of the map or a note, I can be there in ten minutes._

There wasn’t anything left at Zayn’s door; he checked as he rounded the corner and then rounded another one, to park behind the building. As he drove down the block at a snail’s pace to take it all in, he noted that it all seemed quiet, same as any other weekday. He caught a few details, even as he almost fell asleep at the wheel: a few neighbors jogging, a nanny pushing a baby in a stroller, the head and back of the guy across the street who must live in the grey house, down on his knees finally tending to his fucking garden, Lexi’s front door closed tight. All seemed fine.

With a quick glance around him, and no strange men with eyes on him, Zayn allows Jesse to push through, to psyche him up. _Be brave, Z. Be strong._ He nods, shoves his phone in his pocket and exits his car. Then he cracks his back, two sharp twists, since he had been hunched over for those few minutes to respond back to Yaser. His parents don’t know a thing about what has happened over the last week, thankfully, so it was a quick conversation.

The bruises have finally settled in, Zayn’s major muscle groups so sore and fucked up, legs barely able to get him inside the back door. He flips the lock on it, peering through the grey curtain over the sink in case someone was out there watching or following him in the last twenty seconds, and sees the same as the front of his street: calm and empty.

He triple checks the lock on the back door and takes a moment to savor the silence. _Nice and safe, nice and safe, nice and safe._ Eventually he sighs and heads to the bathroom.

Zayn is good at ignoring shit. So he promptly ignores the rest of his apartment, the mess in the living room and the remnants of a struggle. He keeps his eyes down at his feet so nothing else can obstruct his path. The stream of consciousness that he can’t shut off while awake, needs to be flipped off. The constant thoughts of _I need to come down from this, I was just in Jesse’s room, Harry will never forgive me, my body hurts, I can’t cry again, Jesse Jesse Jesse, Destiny Destiny Destiny, roses and maps and notes._ It’s too much and it still hurts somewhere deep, in his bones, his guts, his chest cavity. It’s visceral, Zayn thinks, as he presses a hand to his aching belly. Whatever hurts, it’s something an X-Ray would never be able to reveal.

A shower is exactly what he needs. A shower so hot it’ll practically burn, to lull him into his bed, and a nap that lasts at least two hours. _Just give me two hours, universe. Just two._ He strips down, throws his clothes across the hall into his bedroom, and then stands still under the stream of water until his fingers prune. Practically asleep on his feet. _Come on Zayn, you gotta wash it off._

Begrudgingly, he follows Jesse’s advice. First his hair, then his face. He scrubs away at Harry’s blood under his fingernails, which _almost_ has him hunched over to vomit down the drain. He presses at the bruises across his chest, down his stomach, as he remembers his most recent dream, the phantom hands around his throat. As he rinses off his body wash and the scent of mint dissipates, he thinks about Harry. Harry, who just yesterday stood in the exact same spot and cleaned himself with Zayn’s soap. Harry and his beautiful smile, hands tangled in his hair whenever he tried to tame it, the way his nose scrunched when he laughed especially hard.

Once Zayn takes the few steps from the bathroom to his room, he tries with all of his might to forget about Harry. At least for the afternoon. He climbs into bed as naked as the day he was born and closes his eyes, his breath whooshing from his lungs so fast he’s sure the twins in the closet and Ethel in the attic think it’s another ghost coming to visit. It’s a place he’s never had Harry, his sheets don’t smell like anyone other than him, and he knows he has to get used to it.

Like some sort of record, he’s asleep in about six seconds.

\---

 

_March 24, 2019  
4:19 pm_

Zayn wakes up to Sergeant Mulcahy and CJ’s call. One second he’s in a dreamless sleep, floating in the void, and the next his eyes fly open. He hits his head back against the headboard, sees stars for a few seconds, and sits up. He fumbles for his phone in his pants pocket on the floor, and answers with his name, like always. They tell him about Harry’s polygraph. How he passed with flying colors, how he didn’t go on record about the source of the bruises on his face, how he was let out of the station an hour ago. And because he knows Zayn will ask, CJ tells him that Harry was driven to his hotel by one of the other detectives on duty. He’s okay.

Mulcahy, filled in on the specific case details and nothing more, nothing about Jesse or Zayn’s connection, tells Zayn to stay home for the rest of the day and exits the conversation. Zayn listens as CJ says goodbye to him, before jostling around at his desk, probably shifting so he can speak freely to Zayn on his own. Head tilted down, mouth hidden from anyone in the room, as he tells Zayn that they’ll keep the Jesse stuff to themselves for now, until they know what to do with it.

Zayn exhales and climbs back into bed, pulling the sheet up under his armpits.

“So that’s it?” Zayn hears himself ask, rubbing at the sleep in his eye, wincing at the pain.

“No question,” CJ says with a tired sigh. “He passed and is off the hook. Mulcahy actually watched the last few minutes of it from behind the glass. He wasn’t thrilled about _how_ we brought Harry in, or the fact that we kept him as long as we did, but… now we all know. Harry gave his prints, his statement, he passed, he’s done.”

Zayn nods a few times, half in thought, half asleep.

“But Harry was good? When he left? Did he need… medical attention or anything? Maybe he should’ve gone to an urgent care…” he wonders, brows furrowed, shifting under his blanket.

CJ takes a beat of silence and then says, “No he was fine. I gave him another bag of ice as he left and he was fine.”

“Oh, okay. Well that’s… good. That’s good, thanks Ceej.”

CJ takes another beat, because he can read Zayn even from miles away. He doesn’t need to see Zayn’s face to know how he looks, how pinched his expression gets when he’s truly worried about someone. Zayn’s always had the ability to say more by not saying anything at all. It’s how he survived all of those years with Jesse: to love your best friend but not be able to say so, a person gets good at not saying much else. Earlier that day, when Zayn told CJ about how he went after Harry for personal reasons, they never officially ended that part of the conversation. So maybe it dawns on CJ, settles with him, now. He sees it for what it is.

“You really had something there, didn’t you,” CJ says simply. CJ, witness to the passion between them. He saw Zayn shoving Harry across the station, was the one to hear Harry’s quiet pleas for Zayn to believe him. The way they bickered like children, once they had 3 to themselves. Zayn’s face goes hot, as he realizes that CJ saw his face when Harry gripped his wrist. He saw each and every time Zayn thought about touching Harry in that room. He must’ve given it all away.

Zayn sighs.

“Yeah, we had something. We really did.”

Instead of responding or giving Zayn any advice, CJ yawns. The sound he makes is almost comical, as he probably holds his head in his palm there at his desk.

“Go home, Ceej,” Zayn finally says. “Please go get some rest.”

“But – ”

“No buts.”

“But the guy from the club, he… what if he comes to your place? Maybe I should come there? Or… you come here, or…”

Zayn turns over onto his side and closes his eyes once more, his body relaxing again without his say so.

“I’m fine,” he says with another yawn, lying and yet not at the same time. If he spends any more time going over the fact that a man could be standing outside his front door at that very moment, he’ll never get up. He’ll call his mom and say he’s leaving town for a few months, and never leave the solitude of this room.

“We have to plan,” CJ’s voice cuts through. “We have to – we’ll go through it all again, see if we can come up with a connection or a motive.”

“Yes, we will.”

CJ sighs, giving up the fight.

“Tomorrow, then.”

“Tomorrow,” Zayn says with a quiet exhale.

He doesn’t remember falling back asleep, or hanging up the phone.

\---

 

_March 24, 2019  
6:01 pm_

It’s officially the most amount of uninterrupted sleep Zayn has had in his entire adult life. He barely remembers the brief phone call that afternoon with CJ and Mulcahy. And it’s only when he shifts and rubs his face with his arm that he smells his soap and remembers he took a shower earlier. He didn’t even experience the vague tugging behind his eyelids that has always plagued him, that feeling of someone needing him, the _wake up, you’re missing it, you’re missing everything._

He slept. He rested. He found some solace in his bed, finally after all this time, and then woke up naturally, on his own, not panicking.

It’s like his body doesn’t know what to do with itself with this much sleep, all of his senses coming back to him a little too sluggishly. He’s moving like a glacier, not at all robotic and alert. He stumbles into the bathroom to piss and has to hold himself up with one arm. He stumbles again as he throws on clean boxers. When he slowly makes his way into the kitchen to get water, he has to lean on either side of the sink as he fills a glass. He has to remind his lungs to breathe a few times, in and out.

His insides, his entire body, so used to feeling like a hollowed out log, a pinball machine full of restless anxiety and adrenaline, actually needs the time to wake itself up. Zayn remembers something he read once, about how in times of extreme duress, some peoples’ brains release so much serotonin to offset tension, that people become lethargic to the point of standing still. Like right now. Zayn turns around to perch against the counter. He feels the edge of it cutting into his ass uncomfortably, as he drinks his water, and feels almost nothing. He blinks slowly, his brain catching up.

_Harry isn’t here anymore. I have someone stalking me and I haven’t crashed yet from the fear. That can’t be a good sign._

So he’ll blame it on that, the way he entered his apartment earlier, with his eyes down on the floor; and now, the way he blinks and gulps water like nothing is wrong, not noticing anything around him. Not taking in the energy of the room, the lack of ghosts, the stillness in the air. Zayn’s good at sensing the day, how he’ll react to it. He knows one shift of a cloud can send his mind reeling, his eyes in slits, to figure out what’s wrong. He’s good like that. Usually.

Jesse shifts the curtain in the living room, the front windows now in Zayn’s direct line of sight. Jesse, always the brat, uses the one thing in the room that would draw Zayn’s eye immediately. He finally notices.

More roses. Another bouquet. Yellow roses this time. Big, beautiful roses in full bloom, the color of sunshine, tied together with brown gardener’s twine.

Zayn’s entire body stiffens, the glass held up to his mouth frozen in midair.

The flowers he had moved to the coffee table the night before when Harry was still his, when they sat at the table to eat dinner. Zayn blinks furiously and counts them: the two bunches of red and white that Harry put into cups; the dead pink ones, still tied; and now this new addition, tied together and on its side, yellow and cheery, practically taunting him.

_He came inside. He was inside my house. He was here, he was here, he was here._

Jesse is close then, thankfully. Zayn knows he’s going to hyperventilate and possibly pass out, as he rushes forward and grabs for the new addition to his perverse little collection.

Attached with the twine is another ripped off piece of a map. He flips it over and as he reads the new words written there, Zayn collapses back onto the couch still holding them.

 **_You’re failing._  
_Again._  
** **_I wonder… have you found your peace yet?_**

 

\---

 

_March 24, 2019  
8:50 pm_

Zayn stands on his front steps and crosses his arms over his chest, as he watches CJ wave from their car and peel away from the curb. CJ, ever the problem solver. When Zayn had called him after finding the roses inside his place, his breath catching with almost every word, CJ arrived no less than thirteen minutes later. Zayn caught himself wondering if CJ had finally called it in. Ran it up to their superiors, to get them help, to lift the burden off of their shoulders.

But CJ came on his own, his face tight, like he too couldn’t handle broadening it quite yet.

They checked every door, every window, every lock. The only way anyone could’ve gotten in is by picking the lock on the back door, the only one without a deadbolt. It didn’t show any signs of being tampered with, like someone in a rush to break in and steal something. It was clean. So whoever did it, really took his time to do it right. The stranger picked the lock just so, sometime during the night when Zayn and Harry sat quietly at the station on either side of a mirror, or that morning when he interviewed Harry and then went to inspect his house. Harry, still in police custody, couldn’t have done it. And Zayn’s almost positive that whomever left the flowers knew that.

There’s just no way someone got in while he was home that afternoon or asleep. Zayn is sure of it because he would’ve heard. He would’ve woken himself up.

“I’ve woken up from a gust of wind before. It’s not fucking possible for someone to pick a lock and come into my home without me waking up. I swear. I would’ve known, I would’ve heard, I would’ve fought back. He wrote that I’m failing again, that I’ve done something wrong, again. What did I do, what do I do now, how do I sleep? He was here when I was at the station, I swear.”

Zayn said it so many times, in so many different variations as he paced his living room, that eventually CJ had to hold his hand up to stop the spiral before it started. “I know, Zayn. I know. We’ll figure this out.”

They decided to continue with taking the night off, since the guy was probably long gone at the moment. They had to push themselves to get more rest. They weren’t quite ready to dive head first into the case and its connection to Zayn. Or rather, Zayn’s connection to the case. Whatever it was he did or didn’t do, at some point in his miserable little life, to deserve the present situation. And if he fell down that kind of rabbit hole tonight, right now, he’s not sure how he would get out of bed in the morning. He’d either be curled in a ball scared for his life, or worse, knocked out by three Ambien because he’s a fucking coward.

He can’t go there. He can’t freak out or be too scared to function. He’s a fucking man.

CJ offered to stay the night and sleep on the couch to keep Zayn company, now that they knew someone had been inside. But Zayn couldn’t quite bring himself to admit he’d like it. Or admit that he used to need another body around to feel safe. It was like being thirteen all over again, when he gave up sleepovers for good and always had his parents across the hall in case of emergencies.

CJ reluctantly let it go and made Zayn swear on his mother’s life that he’d call it in immediately, if anyone knocked or tried to break in again. At the end of his rope, CJ ranted. “No more of this bullshit where we don’t take action,” he said, berating the both of them for standing in Zayn’s living room without police tape and colleagues dusting for prints. “Don’t call me, call it in. Get it on record, call 9-1-1, whatever you have to do. If you have to shoot, make sure you try to get backup here first. Always get backup. I’m sick of us not having a lead on this.”

Zayn had to shove at CJ’s head to get him out of his house, but the sentiment came through loud and clear.

And in any case, CJ was right. Starting in the morning, they were going to compile everything they had and see if they could come up with a connection on their own. CJ took the newest piece of map with him, in an evidence bag, for them to match up with the others. To put in the system. They were going to put in the work, finally, to see if they could figure something out. And if they couldn’t within the next few days, if they run into a dead end yet again or feel overwhelmed, they were going to officially open it up to the department. Bring it to Mulcahy, beg not to be fired for failing to do it sooner, and then probably run it up higher than him. They had to make sure everyone knew: _there’s a psychopath out there who murdered a girl and is now stalking one of our detectives, so we need to find the mother fucker before he hurts someone else._

Just then, as CJ rounds the corner at the end of the block, Zayn feels like he’s been punched in the gut. _You’re lucky he hasn’t hurt anyone else so far and that you don’t have another innocent victim on your hands. This is what you get for keeping secrets, you selfish prick._

Thank god no one else has died because of his mistakes. Thank god he told CJ. Someone else knows. If anything happens to another victim, when something inevitably happens to _Zayn_ , at least CJ knows. Zayn has faith that when his time is finally up, when a pair of hands wind around his neck and put him out of his misery, CJ will figure it out.

The longer he stands there, stock-still and without a cigarette between his fingers, the more he realizes how fucking creepy he must look. If any of his neighbors came out and saw him, he’d have yet another mess to clean up. He’s not sure any of them knows he’s a detective and used to standing still to take in his surroundings. Someone must let a dog out into a backyard, because he hears one far off bark and sees a curtain flutter across the street. He presses at his eyes, winces again from the pain, and turns to head inside and come down a bit.

“Hey,” comes the voice down on the sidewalk.

Zayn practically pounces. He whips around and his hand flies to the gun he should probably have strapped to his chest.

It’s Harry.

He doesn’t even flinch at the movement, of Zayn reaching for a gun in front of him yet again. He doesn’t smile or make a joke, doesn’t wink or move his hips as he walks forward to hug Zayn to his chest. He just stands there, black-and-blue, injured, in his nice black jeans and a flowing white top. As always, there’s a hair tie around his wrist to let his hair fall around his face, hands in his pockets.

“Hi,” Zayn says incredulously, almost shaking his head at the surprise. “You’re… you’re here.”

Harry’s face doesn’t change even for a second. He simply blinks.

“I came for my phone and my clothes.”

“Oh,” Zayn nods, because duh, of course he would come back for his stuff. His mind immediately dips to _you’re not here for me, you’re here to finish this, got it._ And then just as fast, it’s _but you’re here, you came back like you always do, we always somehow end up like this._

His mind runs a mile a minute, so he presses a hand to his forehead. _Stop it._ His head hurts, and he can’t look away from the swelling along Harry’s jaw, which then makes his stomach hurt.

When he looks up into Harry’s eyes again, he realizes he wants to touch him. His hand literally twitches, like it wants to reach out and grab him somewhere. Even after their last interaction at the station, when Harry told Zayn to leave, he still wants to fucking touch him.

Harry steps closer.

“I’m also a masochist, apparently. I practically throw myself into fires,” Harry says, his mouth tight, gesturing to Zayn and this little fucking dance they keep doing. Like maybe he was having the same thoughts about their last words. Like maybe he was angry with himself, for coming back here, for being drawn in.

Zayn nods because he gets it. He followed Harry around when he thought him to be a fucking murderer, wanted to keep him close even then, couldn’t stay away if he tried. “Self-destructive tendencies.” That’s what the therapists used to say to Zayn. He has a feeling they’d say it to Harry, too.

Zayn turns and opens his arm up, to let Harry into the house. As Harry passes him, Zayn’s eyes can’t help but flutter as he smells his cologne again. It’s the same kind he was wearing that night when Zayn shoved his face against his chest, soaked him in, as Harry said, “I’m glad you don’t find me strange anymore.”

It feels like a million years ago.

Zayn follows after him and watches him grab his phone from the kitchen counter, with the pile of clothes Zayn had folded right next to it. He thought he’d have to deliver this to Harry at his hotel, or maybe at the agreed upon public place of Harry’s choosing. Anything where they didn’t have to be close, Detective Malik and his suspect Harry Styles, who at one point thought so little of each other, they threw punches to make it hurt.

Zayn crosses his arms over his chest again as he watches Harry move around his place. With CJ’s help, it’s cleaned up a bit. The remnants of their struggle have been cleared away. Harry must notice, his eyes drifting around to each place they hit with their flailing limbs. Zayn hates that Harry sees his home as unpleasant, full of negative energy. It was where they connected on the couch, where they talked and opened up, where Harry gripped Zayn by the hair, as they were about to fuck for the first time. This is where Zayn wanted to keep Harry, whether it was to keep him safe, or just for the selfish reason of having someone to come home to. It’s a shame Zayn let his fucking instincts get so muddled that it’s come to this.

Harry shoves his phone in his pocket and shifts his clothes in his arms. He eyes the collection of roses on the coffee table with the new addition of yellow petals, and Zayn can’t read his expression. Harry is still so good at hiding himself when he wants to.

Zayn bites at his lip and knows it’s time for him to leave.

“Harry, I…” he starts, not quite sure where he wants to end up. _Say you’re sorry, you fucking twat._

“You should put those in water,” Harry says in response, like a smart ass, gesturing to the yellow roses.

Zayn shouldn’t smile, but his lip quirks up a bit as he says, “Nah, I hate flowers.”

Harry rolls his eyes, as he also tries to suppress a smile. It sends another phantom punch to Zayn’s stomach, watching Harry like this. _I want you to call me dramatic and ask why I keep getting these fucking roses. I want to hold ice to your face and kiss your mouth until your jaw is tired. I want you, I want you, I want you._

Harry starts to move towards the door and something inside Zayn snaps.

“No,” Zayn says in a rush, to stop him. “Watch, I’ll prove it.”

He finally steps up to the fucking bouquets that have been taunting him for days and rips the two in the cups right out. He drips water all over himself as he bunches them in one arm, not caring if the thorns tear into his skin. He shoves the old pink ones and the fresh yellow ones alongside them. He wants to show Harry, and do it for himself: finally go put them in the trash where they belong.

Harry must get it because he almost rolls his eyes a second time and heads to the door. Zayn follows after him, their steps mirrored, all the way to the curb. Zayn unceremoniously rips the lid off of his neighbor’s trash can ready for collection the next morning and shoves the flowers away once and for all. With what little strength he has left after the last twenty-four hours, he practically punches the petals into submission. _Fucking roses. Fucking trash. Smell like shit anyway. Fuck you. I hope whoever you are, you can see me now._

Harry watches him a bit morbidly, Zayn acting like a madman yet again, this time with his mysteriously gifted flowers instead of Harry’s orbital bone. Once the lid is back on and Zayn steps away from it, heaving slightly, they lock eyes for only a few moments. Harry wants to leave. He’s desperate for it, eyes darting over Zayn’s shoulder to his car. It’s clear then that Harry stopped over before he has to head off to one of his bars, somewhere for a show. Gorgeous Harry Styles, lighting up a stage like he was born to do it, not a care in the world, and certainly not with Zayn’s eyes on him. No one to know what happened between them or why he looks like he lost a fight. Coming alive, smiling, like he hadn’t spent the night before locked up with metal handcuffs around his wrists until the skin was raised and red.

Zayn knows it’s his last chance. Before Harry can get too far away to head to his Jeep down towards Lexi’s house, he reaches for his wrist and holds on.

If it hurts, Harry doesn’t show it.

_I couldn’t let you go before. And I don’t want to now._

They stand close for the first time since their fight, which they realize at the same time. They each stare at the marks they made, the places it hurts the most. Harry’s eye, Zayn’s lip, the way they both hunch from the shoulders down. Sore ribs, tender muscles.

“I want you to know,” Zayn says quietly, aware that his voice can carry out on this empty block, “that I’m sorry. I’m really, really fucking sorry.”

Harry blinks.

“I’m sorry for hurting you,” Zayn clarifies. He thinks so many things, in those few seconds, none of which he says out loud. _I’m sorry for a lot of shit. I shouldn’t have brought you into my house when I knew it was dangerous. I shouldn’t of hit you. I didn’t know I could do that. You didn’t kill your roommate. You deserve better than the mess I’m in._

Harry relaxes a bit, his body language not as rigid. He doesn’t touch Zayn in any way, but he doesn’t yank his wrist back either.

“I guess I’m sorry, too,” he says simply. “For lying to you.”

Zayn nods and wants nothing more than to lean in. _You asked me to polygraph you so I’d never doubt you again, maybe you knew we’d end up here again, and we’d need the insurance. We’re supposed to be here._ The thoughts become overwhelming, that it’s not over. That he could probably touch Harry’s tender jaw and kiss it better, kiss both closed eyes, kiss him everywhere. But he doesn’t because Harry isn’t ready for that yet. He lets Harry’s wrist drop and steps back.

Harry does that thing where he touches his mouth, and with that odd walk of his, walks away.

 

\---

 

**DAY 7**

 

_March 25, 2019  
8:30 am_

They immediately see it in the eyes of various cops around them. Zayn and CJ make their way through the pit towards their desks, backs hunched from exhaustion, and they can tell. It’s the timid glances, awkward stares, purposeful diversions, as the entire room collectively knows to give them space. Word travels fast within a station, and they all know now that Detectives Malik and Lowell played it dirty the day before. They brought in a suspect against police procedure, kept him cuffed all night, questioned him before a CO even knew about it. They could also probably gauge that Zayn and CJ weren’t exactly on probation because of it, coming into work with coffee and pastries like any other Wednesday. So it’s best to ignore the situation entirely and carry on. Cops stick together and all that shit.

They keep their heads down and ignore the stares.

But then Zayn knows that another detail hasn’t failed to escape the room. It’s as a fucking _desk_ cop eyes him (who three months ago got into a fistfight outside of a bar while off duty, so it’s fucking rich of him to judge anyone) that he realizes.

It’s officially the seventh day of the Destiny Houthakker investigation.

Any cop can tell you, if a case isn’t solved within the first forty-eight hours, you’re probably screwed. Not solved with in week? You’re so fucking screwed, you might as well pack it in and call it a day. Call up the vic’s family and graciously say the department will keep trying, while also quietly moving onto the next.

The young desk cop doesn’t even have the decency to hide the look on his face, so as they round his desk to head towards the far side of the room, Zayn knocks a stack of files over onto his keyboard.

“Oops,” he whispers maliciously, lip curling.

The guy makes a disgruntled sound, all “poor me who has to do paperwork for the next six months,” and Zayn could honestly care less. _Fuck you, dude. Get back to work._

CJ sees it happen, but doesn’t comment. He can see the wild look in Zayn’s eyes, the red overtaking the whites of them almost entirely, and knows to at least let him finish his double Americano in peace. Zayn told him in so few words that as always, he barely slept a fucking wink the night before. All he could picture was a strange man in his house, slinking in the shadows, hiding in the closet. Every time he managed to shut his eyes for more than a few seconds, a jolt would pass through him and he’d be on his feet, hand reaching for the gun he can’t stand to put away.

He ended up changing into work clothes and then driving around the greater Omaha metro until the sun came up. Anything to keep him away from his house of horror, to get rid of the thoughts about Harry, if he’s staying safe, if the stranger had followed Harry at all.

He swore he wouldn’t spend the drive thinking about Harry, but he did. Of course he did.

First things first, they settle at their desks and get to Destiny’s file. There’s so much to enter into the system it’s almost alarming. The DNA sample Zayn submitted, the results, Harry Styles as a match. How they brought him in for questioning, which Mulcahy told them to note only lasted “about four hours,” and then polygraphed him at his own request.

Zayn keeps his face blank and lifeless as he types to recount his walk through of Harry’s room. To make it more legit and by the books, he leaves all feeling and out of it. He focuses on the parts he zeroed in on first: wasn’t a clean up job, no traces of blood or the stashing of a weapon. Chapstick in a drawer, boxers on the floor, a record player to fit with Harry’s story of falling asleep to music. Clear. Now if Mulcahy or anyone else wants to see how the dead stripper case is coming along, or how far they still have to go, by all means. They’re giving themselves only a few more days to do this on their own, before bringing it to Mulcahy. He needs to focus and make it count. So he keeps his notes concise and basic.

At the end, Zayn adds his final note: _After getting Mr. Styles’ statement, searching his bedroom and reviewing the polygraph results, we can conclusively say that he is no longer a suspect in this case._ Zayn stares at his own words, burns them into his frontal lobe, and hits Send on the electronic file.

And that’s that.

Harry Styles has been closed.

Zayn takes the final gulp of his massive coffee and swivels in his chair to get CJ’s attention. It’s time to get a move on. It’s time for Zayn to fucking focus and stop thinking about Harry and the final look he gave him the night before. It’s time to work, to fucking do this, for Destiny and Jesse and himself. Details, details, and more details, to find the man from the club. The stalker. The psycho who murdered Destiny and wanted Zayn to see it.

They head into a private meeting room so they can not only spread everything out on one large table, but also say Jesse’s name without Zayn flinching like he does in public. CJ does that thing where he gets all technical, “to start from the beginning,” and states the case details even though they both have them memorized.

Case #83454, victim: Destiny May Houthakker, age nineteen, of Valentine, Nebraska. Time of death was sometime between four and six a.m. on the night of March 19th, 2019. Cause of death: multiple stab wounds to the chest and abdomen.

New to town, Destiny worked at the Spearmint Rhino as an exotic dancer. Two witnesses there say that a man used to come see her specifically, showed an interest in her, but hasn’t been seen since. She had roses in her work locker, roses in her room, and a drawing attached to those roses was used as her phone background.

The theory is that this man groomed her, kept coming to see her, and gave her gifts. He made sure to pay in cash, there didn’t seem to be any contact between them electronically, and he hasn’t been seen at or around the club since.

Suspect 1. Top of their list.

When CJ starts to pace in front of Zayn, he knows it’s about to happen. He knows CJ needs to say the rest out loud, at least for himself. With a quick glance towards Zayn, to see if it’s alright, he continues.

Case #39001, victim: Jesse Klein, age thirteen, of Omaha, Nebraska. Time of death was approximately three a.m. on the night of August 14th, 2002. Cause of death: multiple stab wounds to the chest and abdomen. Timothy Bates, age twenty-eight, of Omaha, Nebraska was soon named a person of interest. A friend of the deceased saw a man matching his description fleeing the scene. He had the murder weapon still on his person at the time of apprehension and once questioned, confessed to the murder. Timothy Bates, now age forty-five, is currently serving a life sentence without the possibility of parole in a maximum-security prison just outside of Lincoln.

They lock eyes and CJ continues, as Zayn grips his pen so he won’t try to tear blank pages from his folio instead, for something to rip apart and ruin with his hands.

CJ notes that both crimes happened in the same residence, in the exact same spot inside the front door, around the same time at night. Both bodies were placed in the same position and the victims had on similar clothing. The victims were not connected in any discernible way. Blood tests show that they are not related and after looking into both of their pasts, CJ has found no other familial ties. Timothy Bates is still in prison, he hasn’t had any recent visitors that could’ve “carried out a plan” of his, and all members of the Klein family now live out of state. CJ scratches at his temple and repeats it a second time that he checked and all six Kleins live and work in Florida. Their credit card statements all prove none of them have left in the last _month_.

It’s mostly shit Zayn has heard before, except for the bits that show how much more dedicated CJ has been to the case all along. The hours he put it, to look into Destiny’s family and the Kleins’ whereabouts, when Zayn was “too tired” the day before and then driving around all night. He rubs at the hair along his jaw, ashamed. It’s just that hearing it like this, so clinically, hurts. It hurts like it did before. He understands everything and yet understands nothing, the more facts CJ throws down onto the table. Who is the man from the club? Why did he feel the need to hurt Zayn by killing someone who lived inside that house? What is the connection?

_I did something. Or maybe I didn’t do something. I did something wrong. I hurt someone and now they want to hurt me._

Practically reading his mind again, CJ comes to sit at the conference table and levels him with a look. Jesse blows air into Zayn’s ear and he almost growls at him, itching at his ear and neck like he’s lost his mind. _Come on, Z. Get this shit going._

“So we know that I’m the connection, obviously,” Zayn mutters, still rubbing at his ear canal.

“Right,” CJ nods encouragingly as he places the pieces of map together, in the places they match up.

Zayn feels like an asshole then, because he remembers how well CJ does when given actual instructions or a list to follow. He’s been flying solo for days, trying his best to put pieces together, taking care of _Zayn_ instead of it being the other way around. He needs his lead detective to tell him where to go next.

“We need to go through… my life, I guess,” he winces. “Where I come from, who I’ve met along the way. People I may have pissed off. Fuck ups and missteps.”

CJ frowns.

“I never…” Zayn tries to search for the right words, shaking his head. “I’ve never hurt anyone. I swear. I haven’t like, got any skeletons in my closet. I’m not a psycho or a rapist or a fucking murderer.”

“Jesus, Zayn. I _know_ that.”

“I know you do. I know. I just need to say it: whatever this guy hates me for, whatever I did, it’s not… it’s nothing like that. Nothing to equal or measure up to murdering an innocent girl in cold blood.”

Zayn nods a few more times, harsher, more steadfast. _Whatever I did wrong, I didn’t do anything that horrible._ CJ doesn’t chastise him for wanting to say it out loud, which is appreciated. Zayn blinks and tries to keep calm, his voice steady, as he flips through his folio to the pages he kept private, notes he made that never went into the system. He has pages upon pages from a few nights ago when he couldn’t sleep and feverishly made notes on himself, still so dead set on Harry.

“I wrote this down,” he says quietly, moving it closer to his partner. “I… well, I was fucking exhausted, manic as fuck… but that night before we went to the club again, to show Rayna Harry’s picture? I made a list.”

CJ shifts the pages and tries to read Zayn’s handwriting.

“Ways I’ve been a good person,” Zayn mumbles. “Ever since Jesse died. I’m not perfect, as I’m sure my parents and the people I’ve dated would agree. But these things… I can be good, I think. Times I tried to be better, to make up for that night, to help people and make lives better.”

CJ sighs like it’s unnecessary, but doesn’t interrupt.

Zayn pulls out another page, another list. “I thought about my childhood and then being in school, the academy, my years as a beat cop, and didn’t see anything. No big monstrous mistakes. No fights or fall outs with family or any friend, no messy breakups or exes, nothing that would...” Zayn clears his throat, when Destiny’s blue cloudy eyes come to mind. “I didn’t find anything there. So… then I went for my cases.”

He has a good amount of them written down, cases he’s handled over the years before being partnered with CJ, at least the defining details he remembers. His first assists as a junior detective with Alberto, when he mostly just did paperwork and stood by and watched his new hero work his magic. Then he went back through his cases when he became the lead: the clean-cut murders, gang jobs, sketchy suicides, and overdoses that ended up being homicides. Of course there was the girl who was found along the Missouri River, his first case. Then some of the bigger ones: the young boy who was shot through the head and found in an alley in Benson; the husband and wife from Elkhorn who OD’d in their car out at Oakview; the grandfather of seven who was smothered to death with his own sweater, when that fucker with the neck tattoo, Charles McFadden, robbed him at gunpoint and stole his fucking Purple Heart off the wall.

“I thought of these,” Zayn gestures to the page without any names because he sadly couldn’t remember most of them, “when I had Harry on the brain. I was distracted. I was looking for Harry, at each of these scenes. So… I think we should do it right. We pull everything, not just the questionable ones or the ones that took longer than forty-eight. Everything. I need to see where it wasn’t clear. Where _I_ wasn’t clear. Cases where I might’ve fucked up, might’ve been wrong, got sloppy.”

CJ frowns yet again at the admission. Which is fair, since CJ said all along that Zayn needed to let the Harry thing go and not lose focus. Clearly it fell on deaf ears. _All I could see was Harry Harry Harry Harry._

Zayn steels himself, his jaw set.

“It _has_ to be because of a case, Ceej. Somewhere along the line, I was wrong. Maybe an innocent person is in jail because of me. Or maybe someone walked free because I didn’t find them, or I called a case an accident when it wasn’t. I _missed_ something, a detail, a clue, a witness. We have to find it.”

He snaps the folio shut and then begins to collect everything back into Destiny and Jesse’s files. CJ leans back in his chair and watches, his hands in his hair, overwhelmed at the possibilities. They’ll have to go pull file after file from Records, anything and everything that could bring a possible fuck up to light. Zayn’s worked on a good number of cases since he became a lead detective and some have definitely gone unsolved. The rest, they’ll go through with a fine-toothed comb, to see if all is as it should be.

They’re in for it.

Zayn gives himself a few seconds to lean against the table, Destiny and Jesse hugged close to his chest, the pieces of map in their evidence bags crunching from the pressure. He doesn’t want CJ to see his hands shaking. Not again.

“The last note with the yellow roses said, ‘you’re failing again.’ It means I’ve failed this guy before. I failed someone, somewhere, and now… now it’s time to find out how.”

CJ blinks at him and nods.

 

\---

 

_March 25, 2019  
11:31 am_

As always, when it comes to paperwork, CJ gets the better of Zayn in almost every way. Instead of handing off their list and waiting in the hall leading to Records like they’re supposed to do, he actually smiles at Officer Meredith through the reception window and asks to go search the stacks with him. Zayn opts to stay put. The last thing they need is him fucking up the filing system, pulling the wrong folders, knocking over an entire shelf with his bony ass.

Then when they’re back in their now-reserved meeting room, CJ quickly organizes the cases by date, from first to last. They fan the file folders out and it covers the entire surface of table from end to end.

CJ says they need to make three piles, so he slaps down three pink Post-Its on his side of the conference table: Unsolved, Solved, and Questionable. They’d still go through each one, but he says it doesn’t feel as insurmountable when viewed in smaller increments.

CJ stands on one side of the table and grabs for the first one. Jesse.

“Jesse, we know about.”

“He wasn’t _my_ case, though,” Zayn says with a grimace, the piss poor coffee from the station kitchen hitting his tongue like battery acid.

“He’s where it starts,” CJ reasons.

Jesse gets put in the Solved pile.

After Zayn nods and gives him a wave to continue, CJ then reaches for the next file folder and holds it up. They need to go case by case, remember and familiarize, before getting into the nitty gritty details. CJ noted earlier that Zayn would really have to help him see it all, when it comes to the cases he had before CJ came into the picture. Ones they didn’t work on together. Zayn, confident in his abilities, makes sure to stand up and keep his blood flowing.

His first as a lead, the first file to go over, Zayn knows like the back of his hand.

“Girl from the Missouri River. My first case. The overdose.”

“And?”

“Solved.”

“You sure?” CJ asks, still not moving or putting the file into the correct pile.

“Yes.”

CJ opens and scans it quickly, eyes darting around probably trying to read Zayn’s handwriting. He flips up the photo on the inside flap, where they always put the vic’s face, to read further and Zayn catches a glimpse of her wet blonde hair, where it was caked into the mud she died in.

Zayn tosses his coffee into the trashcan by the door, and goes to reach for the next file.

“That’s not the one, Ceej,” he reasons, trying to remember her name, flipping the file open to the wife who was strangled by her ex-husband. “She… the girl – the girl, her name was – she had a little tattoo on her shoulder, they - found drugs in her system. OD’d.”

When he looks up and sees CJ’s face, he blanches slightly.

“What?”

“If you don’t remember her name, she’s going in Questionable.”

“What, why?”

“You said you weren’t focused before, so I’m making you focus now,” he says, ripping the next file from Zayn’s hands, annoyed. “And it was Charlotte, by the way.”

Zayn’s face flames red as he crosses his arms, because yes, this is exactly what he needs. _Thank god for you Ceej, otherwise it’d be exactly like that night on my couch, when I did this alone and came up with absolute shit nothing._ He needs to feel like a newbie, like on his first day at the police academy.

It’s a harsh reality in that moment, as CJ goes through the early ones. He moves from case to case to put them into piles and Zayn calls out Solved and Unsolved, and Zayn can’t remember most of their names. He remembers the details, the crimes themselves, the verdicts from each trial. But not all the victims’ names. For years, he’s professed to himself and to the world how great he is with details. How when he walks onto a scene, he can pick it apart and see what others don’t see. He can _read_ people. Zayn Malik, wonder boy who moved up the ranks so quickly, has always been so _good_ at his job, so _able_ , and _amazing_. Well, ain’t that the farthest thing from the truth.

He readily admits that when it comes to his own life, his personal shit, the family and friends he doesn’t see often, he doesn’t notice much of anything. Unaware, unless a ghost shakes him awake. So maybe he was never as good as he thought he was, maybe he’s missed countless details over the years, and is now facing the music. _Thank god for you, Ceej._

Zayn tries to give his partner a grateful smile, but CJ is too distracted. He takes the sixth case from the table and flips it open, probably keeping an eye out for anything involving roses, maps, or stalkers.

“Damn, another kid,” CJ says with a resigned sigh, eyes not moving from the contents in his hand. “Teenager, died out on an old farm, way past Military, riding a bike. His friends said he collapsed out of no where.”

He looks up at Zayn.

“They were liars,” Zayn says with a scowl. “He had a fucking bruise on his back that looked eerily like a footprint. Quite the coincidence. One of them kicked him off his bike and made him hit his head. Should’ve at _least_ been involuntary manslaughter.”

“You sure?”

“I mean,” Zayn says defensively, shifting his weight like his mom just caught him stealing a candy bar from Walgreens. “Yeah, I saw the bruise. It looked like a foot.”

CJ blinks. Waiting.

“Justin, I think.”

CJ blinks again.

“Julian Lui,” he says, closing the file.

Face beat red again, Zayn mumbles, “Questionable.”

As they go on, Zayn wishes he had brought another bag of ice in the room with him. His face has started to throb the longer they go, the worse he feels about not remembering some of these people as well as he should.

An hour later, CJ gets to Kira. He tries to hide an exhausted yawn as he shifts the contents.

“Shooting in North O. Wife shot her husband in the back. She said it was in self-defense after he hit her again, but the prosecution said he wasn’t facing her. He was running. Pre-meditated, murder in the first.”

Zayn remembers that one well. He doesn’t lose _every_ detail. And he definitely remembers some names.

“Kira Solomon. She’d been treated for a broken rib three times that year. A fractured wrist and fresh lacerations to her face. Cops were called twice that month, from domestic disturbance calls from neighbors. I remember their house was so clean, you could’ve eaten off the floor.”

CJ looks up at him and gives a half-smile.

“The self defense angle worked,” CJ nods at the file as he closes it. “They let her off.”

Zayn cried that day in court, when she was acquitted. That was a good day.

“Solved,” CJ says, nodding his head at Zayn for a job well done.

_Thanks, buddy._

“Solved.”

Once they hit the seventeenth case, Zayn begins to bounce on the balls of his feet. He wants this to work, to flip through his cases, and his _brain_ , like a Rolodex. He remembers them, of course he does, he swears it. CJ can tell, his shoulders not so tense, as he reads them out.

Zayn knows these cases. They start to get clearer, not so far away, as he grew as a person and as a detective. He got better and better at his job. He worked them, slaved over them, his blood, sweat, and tears covering those files and the pictures they held. Stabbings, with knives and screwdrivers and pieces of wood. People found dead in their own pools, their cars, under their desks at their offices. Wives, brothers, cousins, kids. They come back to him. Dan Mentzer, Trey Griggs, Garrett Schilder, Beatrice Sykes. Their dead faces staring up at the two detectives, the ones who were laid to rest peacefully and the ones Zayn could never figure out.

Once they hit the thirtieth case, CJ begins to go through them at a rapid fire pace. That was when Zayn was assigned a brand new junior detective, CJ Lowell. That was when they formed their little alliance and CJ took it upon himself to announce every scene, which means he knows every single name of every case he’s ever worked on. CJ, the reverent one to Zayn’s hard ass. They’ve never had a truly unsolved case together, nothing without a discernible ending, which makes CJ about the luckiest bastard Zayn has ever met.

Allison Manero, Justin Braxton, Quinn Fielder, Matt Garzone.

Dead, dead, dead, dead.

Solved. Solved. Questionable. Solved.

Terrell Tillger, Barbara Tillger, Shamar Brown, Ryan Sarnacki.

Dead, dead, dead, dead.

Solved. Solved. Solved. Questionable.

By the time they both collapse into chairs side by side a few hours later, the amount of cases don’t seem so arduous. Each and every person Zayn has come across since his time began as a lead detective three and a half years ago, put into smaller stacks.

There’s so much more to be done, but it’s better now. Zayn looks over to his right, at his Solved pile. It’s taller than the other two, the files thicker, not as worn from his wringing, nervous hands. _I’m good at my job,_ he thinks with a nod. _I’m fucking good at what I do, I help people, I’m a good person. Whatever mistake I made, I’ll find it. I’ll find this fucker and make him pay._

_And I haven’t thought about Harry once._

When Zayn turns back to CJ, he sees a smile. Because the solved pile is taller than the other two, and CJ noticed as well. Zayn returns the smile and ducks his head.

They bump fists and get back to work.

 

\---

 

_March 25, 2019  
7:24 pm_

_What else don’t I notice?_

_The stranger said he wonders if I’ve found my peace yet._

_I doubt I ever will._

_Harry._

Zayn sits in the driver seat of their car and smokes his third cigarette in ten minutes, head tilted back on the seat, eyes out to the horizon. It’s a nice night so he rolled all of the windows down. Waiting for another phone call, thoughts drifting in and out at a leisurely pace. They don’t slam together like one trying to dominate all of the others. He just… lets them float a bit, out of order, like he’s about to take a nap without the actual sleep.

It’s been a long, tiring day and he’s pretty sure he ploughed through it with just enough energy to keep him asleep again that night, maybe another four uninterrupted hours. What a treat that would be: actual sleep two days in a row. Sleep would be good. If he can manage it. It’s just that the constant barrage of work has kept his mind off of everything else. The man who broke into his house, the taunts, the pieces of map that lead to nowhere.

Harry. How Harry is, if he’ll hate Zayn forever, if he’s taking care of himself.

Zayn sniffs. He takes another drag as he loosens his tie and undoes a button.

Officer Starzak passes in front of him, out of uniform and on the phone with his wife most likely. He’s a good-looking guy, Zayn reasons. Nice ass. Keeps his eyes diverted whenever a woman in a low cut top asks him a question. Zayn thinks it’s nice when men with wives do that. Lex used to purposefully wear shit that drew his eye to her chest, even had her nipple peaking out one time, as she flipped her hair over her shoulder and sucked a mark into his neck. It’s also nice that he has someone to go home to, someone he really loves.

_I almost had that, I think._

_And see, I notice some things. I notice men who have good manners, women when they’re trying to fuck me, the way Harry walks like he’s strutting for someone special, which is different from his everyday walk._

He tosses the spent cigarette into the old cup of coffee between the seats.

He shouldn’t smoke another, but he lights one anyway. Hand cupped around it, head tilted to the side, inhaling the first and best hit of nicotine. The first drag always tastes the best, since it has more filter to pass through. Cleaner. As pure as poison can get. Luke used to say it was the sexiest he ever looked, like “James Dean in an old movie,” whenever he used a match instead of a lighter.

Earlier when he was on the phone with Destiny’s parents, Zayn dreamed about this exact moment. When he could be alone and indulge in a bad habit. _You’re a naughty boy, Zayn Malik. I wonder who got you hooked?_ Zayn rolls his eyes at Jesse, who as always, is a fucking moron.

It’s just that Zayn had so much to apologize for, when Mrs. Ward picked up the phone: for not getting back to her sooner, for not calling and offering his condolences on the day of the funeral, and most importantly, for not finding her daughter’s fucking killer.

“Detective, please keep trying,” she whispered at the end, overcome with emotion. “Please don’t let him get away.”

He promised he wouldn’t, right as her husband took the phone and shooed her from the room. Destiny’s stepfather Clark, still a man of few words, only asked that Zayn not call back unless he had a substantial lead.

Or as he put it, with a gruff voice, “Don’t rile her ‘less you have somethin.”

It was while CJ was on a quick break, to stretch his legs and clear his head a little after staring at map pieces for over an hour. CJ has taken to staring at them for minutes at a time, the ripped pieces placed together like they were a puzzle. All they could see was blue and green, downtown Omaha, the river, parts of Iowa, and the black Sharpie ink from the ones with written notes on the other side. The red penned heart. No X to mark the spot, no indication if it was supposed to signify a specific place. CJ kept muttering about the map being the biggest clue. But so far, nothing.

Zayn let him go take a walk, to call his mother maybe, to breathe in some fresh air. So Zayn didn’t have anyone to commiserate with there at his desk. He just hung up the call from Destiny’s parents, smacked his cell against his forehead a few times, and then dialed a second number.

Roommate 1 Niall Horan didn’t answer, so Zayn left a message to please call him back. In addition to going over Zayn’s old files, they decided to circle back to a few people. The roommates, the manager of the club, Rayna and Monica. Ask questions again, keep pestering, find out if someone remembered something they could use. Ask about water. The map.

As if on cue, Zayn’s right pocket vibrates.

He holds the cigarette between his teeth as he grabs for it and gives his greeting, same as always, with his last name.

“Malik.”

“Hey, uh,” comes Niall’s timid voice, “this is Niall Horan.”

“I know.”

“You called?”

“Yeah, well…” Zayn scrunches his face, his eyes burning and dry. “I just wanted to give you a courtesy call. I wanted you to know that we still don’t have any leads. But that, you know, we’re still on it.”

Niall doesn’t respond right away, and Zayn can hear a dog barking in the background. Maybe the sound of meat sizzling in a pan, footsteps in a kitchen, a girlfriend asking who he was on the phone with.

“I also wanted you to know… in case it gives you some peace of mind… that we cleared Harry Styles of any wrong doing. He didn’t hurt Destiny.”

“Really?”

“He was questioned. Even took a lie detector. He’s clear.”

“Wow,” Niall says on an exhale, moving away from the noise. “I didn’t – I mean, that’s good. I knew they had a weird thing happening, something I never _saw_ outright, but… I thought something was going on. And you know what they say… it’s always the boyfriend or husband, right?”

Niall chuckles at his own mini joke, and then immediately coughs over it like he’s mortified of his own laughter. But Zayn actually loves that he brought it up, because it’s absolutely true. Eight times out of ten, in fact. He tosses his last cigarette into the coffee cup and sits up in his seat. He grips the steering wheel in his hand, knuckles white.

“Actually, I wanted to ask you that as well. You said you never saw any guys around the house.”

“Yeah,” Niall agrees, probably frowning.

“We have a person of interest, a guy from the Spearmint Rhino who kept coming around. Gave her flowers. She probably brought them home a lot.”

“I guess I saw her with roses a few times the last few weeks,” Niall offers, like it’s not important. “Like big bundles of them, after her shifts. But she never mentioned anything about them. Not like, who gave them to her. She just smiled a lot.”

Zayn knew this already, but still.

“What about a map? Did you ever see her with a map, planning a trip somewhere?”

“No. Sorry.”

It was worth a shot. Even though Zayn’s almost positive the map has nothing to do with Destiny, and everything to do with _him_ , it can’t hurt to ask.

“If you think of anything, anything she might’ve said, anyone who randomly dropped by, delivered flowers for her,” Zayn says, rubbing his sore and swollen eye. “Please call me.”

“Yeah, yeah of course.”

“Thank you, Niall.”

A few more officers pass in front of the car, heading to various cars in the parking lot. They wave, rib each other, have a camaraderie that Zayn remembers from his time as a uniform. He remembers the relief of driving home after a shift, when the overwhelming fear of getting injured while on duty started to dissipate. He thought that fear would go away when he became a detective. But here he is, afraid to go home.

Afraid, jonesing on nicotine and gripping his steering wheel like it’s the only tether he has. He closes his eyes and presses his forehead to it.

“Uh, okay well… thanks for the call, Detective,” Niall says through the few seconds of silence. “I’m… I really hope you find who did this to her. Put him away and throw away the fucking key.”

Zayn sighs and tilts his head back.

“That’s the plan.”

After they hang up, Zayn tries to come down a bit, his feet curling in. It’s like a shut down, but he’s too wide-awake. _I can’t sleep and I can’t go home and I don’t know if Harry is okay._

_I can’t go home alone._

 

\---

 

_March 25, 2019  
8:46 pm_

When CJ literally almost falls out of his chair from exhaustion, Zayn calls it.

He helps CJ right himself up at his desk, his eyes so bloodshot and dry, someone could very likely think CJ had gotten stoned during his break. He tries to mumble that he’s okay, that he’s here, he’s fine, but Zayn scoffs in his face. They pack up their files, the ones they had started to go through from the Questionable and Unsolved piles. Zayn feels like his dad then, when Yaser would lift Zayn up from his desk or the kitchen table, where he had passed out over his homework, and carry him to bed. He presses a hand to the back of CJ’s neck and tells him to go rest. Really rest. The files and the map and Zayn’s stalker can wait.

It’s quite the role reversal, which CJ mentions with that dry wit of his. How he’s usually the one forcing Zayn to eat and sleep and function like an actual human being. Zayn tells him to fuck off.

As CJ grips his bag over his shoulder and winds his way around a few empty desks, the entire pit completely clear except for the two of them, he turns back to stare at Zayn.

And like he can’t help himself, he watches Zayn’s movements to see for signs of a shut down. To see if he has to return the favor, and hold Zayn’s arm to get him out the door and into his car.

But he must see a different version of Zayn. Not the spent robot dead set on heading home to his little duplex, to a Mexican Coke and a new Netflix show, perched on his couch. Alone.

He instead sees the way Zayn’s eye twitches, his nervous feet, the crack to his knuckles. He sees Zayn afraid. Unsure of where to place himself in the world, since home doesn’t feel right. Not anymore. Not when the man came inside through a locked door. He sees Zayn tweaking a bit, from lack of sleep and lack of something else, too.

“Hey Zayn,” he calls out.

Zayn turns to look at his partner, shoving the map pieces into Destiny’s file, to look busy. To hide his shaking hands.

CJ shrugs with a resigned sigh. Maybe was inevitable.

“Make sure you both stay safe tonight,” he says, like it’s a demand. “Stay alert.”

Zayn could pretend like he doesn’t know what CJ means, but he’s trying not to keep secrets anymore. And the look on CJ’s face, paired with the unease punching him over and over into the gut, means it absolutely was inevitable. He can’t go home, he can’t feel safe like this, alone. He can’t sit still.

And even though it isn’t fair to drag anyone else into this with him, as he falls further and further down the rabbit hole, Zayn nods to CJ. Because lately whenever he can’t sit still, he does the one thing that stops the plummet.

 

\---

 

_March 25, 2019  
9:15 pm_

“You’re following me,” comes the voice over Zayn’s shoulder.

He jumps at the suddenness of it, whirling around to come face to face with Harry Styles. Right there in front of Toad’s, a DJ’s music pouring out onto the street as various people trip in and out of the bar’s main door. Zayn had gotten in with the other smokers waiting for the show, offering his lighter where he could. Blending in. Yankees hat tipped down over his bruised eyes, black jacket unzipped since there wasn’t a lick of wind or chill to the air. Gun tucked in the back of his jeans, just in case. Waiting. Waiting to see if he could spot Harry coming, to lock eyes with him and try to send a message. _Don’t be angry with me, I’m sorry I can’t stay away, I had to check on you, I can’t go home, it’s not right that I haven’t spoken to you all day._

But to Zayn’s surprise, Harry was the one to see him first.

Zayn heaves a few breaths, his unprepared body catching up to his brain, which has not sent any messages Harry’s way in the few seconds between them. He’s too distracted by Harry standing in front of him, with a guitar case over one shoulder, wearing the black jeans with holes in the knees and a thin long-sleeved black shirt. _You’re gonna sweat right through that, babe. It’s warm tonight._

Zayn shoves his hands in his pockets and remembers he has to say something.

“Not ‘following,’” Zayn says with a half smile, shifting away from the smokers a bit for some privacy. “Not this time.”

Harry tilts his head and follows Zayn to lean against the brick wall of the bar.

Zayn fumbles with his words slightly, this new Harry throwing him off his game yet again.

“Uh, well… technically, as the lead detective on Destiny’s case, it’s my job to… ask you, as a paying boarder from the house, if you’ve remembered anyone coming to see Destiny, any gifts left for her, noises. Those few days before she died, I mean.”

Harry blinks.

“No. I didn’t see anyone.”

“Right. Of course. Well. If you remember anything, you… have my number.”

Harry blinks again, his green eyes wide and slightly watery. Like maybe he has spring allergies coming his way.

“That was all?” Harry asks, shifting his guitar.

Zayn winces.

“I just… the show,” he gestures to the door. It’s almost time for Harry and his band to take the stage, to sing for these strangers, as they get inebriated on a Wednesday night. It’s not like anyone has anything better to do. None of these lucky bastards have dead girls on their minds. That’s just Zayn and Harry, who still stares at Zayn like he’s supposed to be saying more.

_I hate this version of you. The bruised quiet version. You’re supposed to be talking my ear off. I can barely get a word in. I miss you. Say something._

Harry still won’t though. So really, Zayn could cut his losses and get back into his car. Drive around all night like he did the night before, anything to keep him away from his place. So he’s not tempted to kick his own door down with his gun raised, to see if someone is inside. Or sit and wait for Lexi again. Or take a sleeping pill and pass out even though he has to be at the station early in the morning. _Self-destructive tendencies. Like right now._

Suddenly overcome with some form of _fuck it,_ Zayn steps right into Harry’s space. He holds Harry by the forearm and looks him in the eye.

“I wanted to be at your show again. I wanted to be here. I… You and me, we…”

_We’re not finished yet._

In yet another surprise, Harry sighs like he’s upset, while also bringing his other hand up to Zayn’s face. He cups his cheek, both of their breaths hitching, before running his thumb along the scab of Zayn’s bottom lip. It’s a good thing Harry doesn’t see it quiver from the contact, as Zayn’s mind flashes to that last night with Jesse: a finger to his lip and a _you did good._ The best and most earth-shattering sentence Jesse had ever muttered.

Zayn schools his face so Harry doesn’t see the emotion there. He just appreciates the rough pad of Harry’s thumb and prays it’s not the last time he gets it.

“You wanted to see me,” Harry says matter-of-factly with a soft, slow curving smile.

_I always want to see you._

Zayn nods, like he did that morning when they curled up on his steps, because they both know it. They’ve known it since the beginning. _I want to be around you all the time._

“Do you think this will leave a scar?” Harry says quietly with his thumb still on Zayn’s lip, head tilted again.

Zayn shrugs, hoping Harry’s hand won’t drop, and says, “Might. Yeah.”

Harry thumbs at it a few more times and Zayn sees another hint of a smile there. The teasing, the playfulness, even in the midst of the shit between them. Like maybe they’re not so far gone that Zayn showing up at Harry’s bar isn’t the worst thing in the world. Like maybe Zayn can tell Harry all of his secrets, keep him safe, help him sleep. _Your roommate is dead and my case is unsolved. But we should stick together. We need to._

Right as he’s about to dart his tongue out to lick Harry’s thumb, to be a tease right back, someone _slams_ into Zayn’s shoulder so hard, he goes flying forward. Harry has only a split second to catch him, which he thankfully does.

“What the fuck,” Zayn hisses, turning his head to see who it was, while also taking in the fact that he’s against Harry’s chest and has Harry’s hands on his hips.

Zayn only catches the back of him, some short, white fucking asshole with light brown hair who struts into the bar like it’s nothing. He’s lucky Zayn is right where he wants to be, otherwise he’d have a badge shoved in his face as Zayn tells him to respect patrons standing on the fucking sidewalk.

“Jesus,” Harry mutters, eyes also following the man. He frowns for a few seconds, but then tilts his face back towards Zayn’s.

It only takes three more seconds for the shove to be forgotten, because then Zayn inhales Harry’s cologne and grips the hem of Harry’s shirt in his hands. Pulls him closer. One of the girls from Harry’s band passes them then, slaps Harry’s ass with a wink, which has them both smiling. It’s almost time for Harry to go on, to go be the brightest light in the fucking room.

“Say it again,” Harry says with a clear, set voice as he reaches for the brim of Zayn’s hat. He turns it all the way around on his head, so they can put even less space between them.

Zayn doesn’t need to ask what he means.

“You’re clear, babe. And I believe you. I _swear_ I believe you,” Zayn says sincerely.

Harry bites his lip and it’s like something settles inside him. His shoulders relax and he goes to grab Zayn by the back of the neck to pull him closer.

But before Zayn kisses him, he needs to say something, too.

“Just so long as you believe me,” he blinks at Harry. “That I’m a good person, that no matter what I did,” _like when I fought you to the floor and screamed at you for lying and that night when I was thirteen and for fucking up a case along the way,_ “…you believe that.”

Harry actually smiles again and rolls his eyes. He leans in like he’s going to kiss him, but doesn’t.

“You’re very dramatic, you know,” Harry mumbles against Zayn’s open mouth, careful of the cut there. _And all was right with the world._

“Maybe so.”

“I should hate this, you coming here,” Harry says the words between kissing him, mock annoyance in his voice. “I really fucking should.”

“I know.”

Harry hitches his guitar up on his shoulder and Zayn knows he has to go. So he holds him close for a few more seconds. It turns heated rather quickly, which is sort of ridiculous. Zayn holds him by the shirt and tastes him again like he’s hungry for it. Bites Harry’s bottom lip, flicks his tongue at his cupid’s bow. Harry groans at that, and makes like he wants to press Zayn up against the wall for the whole fucking bar to see.

Zayn pushes his face away though, smiling, like the night isn’t over yet.

Before he leaves, Harry grips Zayn by the back of the neck a final time. Looks him in the eye.

“This is still so fucked up,” he says quietly.

“It is,” Zayn agrees, because he’s not going to fight it anymore. Even if it’s fucked up, whatever they’re doing, they’re not going to stop. CJ told him to make sure the two of them stayed safe, and that’s what Zayn intends to do. Keep Harry close.

_And honestly, I’ve been fucked up for so long, I don’t even notice it anymore. I swear I’ll tell you all about it soon._

When Harry turns to head into the bar, Zayn slaps his ass and follows after him.

 

\---

 

_March 25, 2019  
9:42 pm_

The performance reminds Zayn of a few days ago, when he saw a more reserved Harry Styles up on stage. He doesn’t go hard or jump around to get the smallish mid-week crowd excited. He stands mostly in one spot, his mic stand in his hands with vice grip, playing up the damaged bad boy angle. Zayn knows it’s also to contain the energy of the room, to not be the center of attention, and just part of it. Standing still, only a slight sway to his hips, with a hand on his dick only once. But then Zayn realizes with a pang that it’s probably because Harry is still sore. The bruises on his face have started to turn yellow, and his ribs must ache like Zayn’s do.

During a slower Death Cab cover, Harry pulls a high stool to center stage and sits to have his third cocktail of the night. Zayn eyes his knobby knees bursting out of his jeans, as he leans back every so often to hit a high note, the mic cord wound around his fingers.

Zayn shakes his head to focus. To look elsewhere.

He wants to be better about taking in his surroundings, ever since CJ called him on it. How _not_ detail oriented he can actually be, when he’s not on a scene and getting paid for it. He has to make sure he doesn’t miss something. If someone has been following him, he needs to catch the fucker in the act. He needs to use his deduction skills in his own life, in the space he inhabits, until this psycho shows himself. And with Harry as a distraction for the last week and up on a stage, it’s important now more than ever. _Stay alert._ He sits with the bar digging into his back so he has a full view of the room. _Stay safe._

When Harry sings to him, when he leans out towards the crowd and smiles at him just so, Zayn only indulges for a few seconds. He smiles back, sends him a _cheers_ with his glass, and then looks away.

The crowd isn’t big. It’s not rowdy. It’s full of couples holding hands, coworkers in ill-fitting Business Casual, and a few girls sharing pitchers of beer near the front window. There’s also a bartender who keeps staring at Zayn with wide come-hither eyes. He pretends not to see her, because if he had a dollar for every bartender who looked like they want to suck a mark into his neck, he’d be rich.

He sips his water and almost wishes he had his folio on him to take notes.

_I haven’t noticed anyone following me. I haven’t seen him. The stalker would need to blend in. But he also craves attention, so where are you? Small room. Small crowd._

No one else pays Zayn any special attention, until towards the end of the set. After locking eyes with Harry as he sings the line “At the death of every darkness, there's a morning, though we all try,” Zayn smirks. Harry makes that face like he’s sweet and kind, but Zayn knows it’s just for the sake of the girls up front. It’s not the face he’ll make later, the face he made on Zayn’s couch or pressed against him in his kitchen. Harry winks and Zayn smirks a second time. _I’m taking you home. I’m gonna have you in my bed tonight._ Harry must get the message because he does that other face of his: the stupid one where his eyes bug out and he smiles in a daze, like he just experienced his first kiss.

Zayn tears his gaze away, which is a shame, because he’d rather like to mouth dirty things to Harry and fuck up his concentration. _Details, Zayn. Pay attention._ He turns down the bartender when she asks if he wants something stronger to drink, as his eyes drift over towards the front windows, to the girls with the beer. Still seems quiet. He palms at the hair growing on his chin and scans from left to right.

He finds the stare of a man.

The shorter man with brown hair who ran into him earlier, Zayn can tell by the black shirt he’s wearing. He stares right at Zayn with dead set eyes, unblinking, with so much intensity, Zayn feels his cheeks burning from the heat. The song Harry sings somewhere to Zayn’s left starts to wind down. People begin to clap, it’s over, the lights are going to come up. And there’s a man who shoved Zayn earlier staring at him from near the door.

Zayn feels his pulse quicken, his heart seizes up. This is it.

_I’ve seen you before._

_I recognize you._

_Who are you?_

It’s the last few notes of the song. Harry’s voice carries through the whole bar, a note he could hold for minutes if he had to. The man shifts as people start to move past him to the street. Zayn starts to gather himself, his hand reaching back under his shirt for the gun in his jeans, as the guy gives him a final look.

It’s a grimace. A sneer. Like the stranger is disgusted, horrified, absolutely _revolted_ by the person he sees. Zayn notes the sharp teeth and the way his entire face squints in anger.

_I know you. How do I know you?_

More people crowd the door, more people push into Zayn at the bar to get drinks and forget their problems. And when Zayn finally shoves a guy out of his way with the hand not on his gun, he looks to find the stranger near the door. To go after him.

But it’s too late.

He’s already gone.

 

\---

 

_March 25, 2019  
10:10 pm_

Zayn texts CJ a string of almost complete nonsense, as Harry drapes over his back and calls out drink orders for friends and band members. The bartender who wanted Zayn suddenly has eyes for Harry, which is convenient and he very much uses to his advantage. Even with his arm around Zayn’s shoulders, his dick pressed against Zayn’s ass, he still gives the girl a shit-eating grin and holds a gentle finger to her clavicle to ask where she got her necklace.

But Zayn doesn’t pay much attention to the interaction. His fingers fly across the phone screen, texting his partner who is definitely already asleep and will see first thing in the morning.

**ZM: He was here. Bar I’m in downtown. DON’T freak out, we’re good, he left and was too fast, when I got to street, couldn’t see where he went. White male. Black tshirt and jeans, no taller than 5’8” with brown hair/blue eyes. Seen him before, recognize face, can’t remember.**

He feels Harry hug him with both arms then, as the band’s keyboard player whistles at them. Clearly Harry didn’t divulge what happened between them or how he got the bruises on his face.

Zayn’s too keyed up, his body thrumming with energy, as he gets it all down. It’s the surge of adrenaline that he’s used to be now. The rush spreads from his stomach outwards, through the lymphnodes and nerve endings, to his face, armpits, groin, extremities. Before he loses the details, he has to get it all down and in CJ’s hands. _Remember what you know, Z._

Harry shifts off his back and instead stands next to Zayn, slightly rebuffed. He tries to whisper in Zayn’s ear, something Zayn can’t make out, and kisses his cheek, up near his temple, down to his neck. But Zayn can’t pay attention yet. He absolutely needs Harry to stay as close as possible, but he has to get it out.

**ZM: He shoved me as I walked into the bar. He saw Harry. I saw him see Harry.**

Zayn feels it slipping away, the things his brain wants him to remember. _Think, Zayn. You saw him before. Where? Where where where? You saw his face, where did you see his face before?_

The adrenaline surge hurts, he feels his knees buckle slightly. There’s a little crowd around the bar full of Harry’s friends and band, the few patrons who came out to watch their set. The bartender hands out various shots as Zayn presses a hand to his forehead and closes his eyes.

Just then some guy slides into Harry’s space at the bar, on the opposite side as Zayn. He knows because he can feel it: the shift in Harry’s body, the way he leans back towards Zayn slightly. Like whoever it is, whoever came up to him, got too close too fast. Zayn hears a flirty laugh, the guy’s name, the question about whether or not Harry always grabs at his dick when on stage.

Zayn’s eyes fly open.

_That’s it._

First things first, he grips Harry by the shoulder and pulls Harry flush against his chest. He peers over to Harry’s other side, eyes on the tall dude with the ugly ass newsboy cap and distressed vintage tshirt, and quite plainly rolls his eyes. Harry then rolls _his_ eyes at Zayn being dramatic again, before turning his body and ignoring the dude as well.

“I only wanna grab _your_ dick, babe,” Harry slurs into Zayn’s neck. “Promise.”

Zayn lets him stay close, doesn’t move him away. He needs Harry to stay close. But before Zayn can go there, he sends a final text to CJ.

**ZM: At Harry shows. I’ve seen him twice before at Harry shows, tried talking to me but I didn’t talk back. We’ll check for cameras. Inside bar and street cams. See him coming in or going out. We’ll find him, Ceej. He was HERE, I have him now.**

Zayn almost smacks his palms down onto the bar in celebration, the surge of adrenaline suddenly turning to heat, to fucking fire, in his veins. The guy who hit on him those times, when Zayn was so laser focused on Harry performing. Zayn remembers thinking he looked familiar _then_ , but somehow convinced himself at the time that it was only because the stranger reminded him of Jesse. Somehow this guy has been circling Zayn, for God only knows how long, and Zayn knew his face when he smiled at him. Something flickered in Zayn’s memory and he didn’t even know it. He sat next to that guy at the bar, their elbows touched once, the psycho actually approached Zayn again and again. To get Zayn’s attention. To pull him in.

Zayn almost cries he’s so happy, which is sort of perverse. No fear, no anger, no unease at the un-solid ground he’s now found himself on.

Because it’s finally going to come out. He has a break, a real break. He didn’t pay attention before, but he’s paying attention now. _Fucking fuck, I fucking have you, mother fucker._

Harry sees the new expression of elation on Zayn’s face, is delighted by it, and shakes at Zayn as he smiles. Harry leans in to kiss his cheek again, and as Zayn smiles that dumb smile of his, the one Jesse liked, Harry’s lips catch the corner of his mouth. Even as Zayn’s eyes almost cross from exhaustion, as he holds Harry upright, he can’t stop smiling. This guy has shown his face, Zayn knows it, he recognized it, it’s done. Whoever this fucker is, Zayn is going to find him. However he needs to, whatever has to be done, Zayn is going to fucking find him.

Finally Zayn turns to face Harry straight on. He grabs his face with both hands, gently so as not to disturb the bruising there, and kisses him. Their teeth clash, it’s not very sweet or well thought out, but Harry’s friends cheer around them. Harry gladly accepts the tongue in his mouth and presses his own right back, until they’re both laughing mouth to mouth.

The last forty-eight hours feel like a fever dream, like it wasn’t real life, as Zayn snorts at Harry’s hand now curled around his crotch.

They finally have a break in the case, Jesse is probably smiling somewhere, and Zayn has Harry Styles between his palms.

_Nice and safe, nice and safe, nice and safe._

 

\---

 

_March 25, 2019  
11:59 pm_

As always, reality sets in rather quickly.

The more Zayn paces back and forth in his living room, the more agitated he becomes. It’s not anger or uneasiness. No, he’s done anger and uneasiness already. That’s been the last week of his life, every second of every day either angry at the world, angry at himself, or worried over impending doom. He hasn’t taken a moment to breathe, to eat, or have any sort of relief. It’s just been anger, stress, and irritation.

He did happy and excited at the bar, though. His one reprieve within the mess, was when he made out with Harry until the people around them stopped watching, until they all started to trickle out onto the empty street.

That feeling of true joy lasted about as long as it took to get Harry out to his car, stumbling slightly on the old brick cobblestones of downtown, when he realized it.

There out on the quiet street, Zayn felt eyes. Millions of eyes, hands around his throat, someone yanking Harry away by the hair. He could be anywhere. Zayn was hit with the realization, now that he had Harry’s hand in his own, that it was real. _Harry coming home with me, Harry in the middle of this, the guy from the bar could be anywhere, he’s everywhere, I have to keep us safe until tomorrow._

That was fear. Anxiety. Walls closing in.

If he could count the rush of emotions he’s felt in the last few hours on his fingers, it would take more than two hands. It all feels like too much, like the pain in his chest will never go away.

Zayn paces the length of his living room and kitchen, over and over, and now all he feels is impatience. After everything, now he’s settled into eagerness. Like he wants to get a move on, to figure it out, to finally do what needs to be done. For Destiny’s sake.

If he knew for certain that he wouldn’t wake CJ up in the middle of the night in a panic, there’s a very real possibility that Zayn would’ve driven straight to his place after the bar. They had a lot of work to do. But he knows CJ is sound asleep, covered by the blanket his mother patched together for him, made up of his old t-shirts from high school. CJ needed to rest. He needed to finally eat the homemade soup his elderly neighbor makes him every week, watch an episode of “Breaking Bad,” and then drift off into dreamless sleep.

Zayn can’t wake CJ tonight. He’d rather suffer alone.

Earlier when Zayn and Harry arrived back at the duplex, everything looked and felt normal. Zayn asked a drunken Harry to be quiet as he drove down his street and scanned everything, his eyes suddenly 20/20 and on alert. His side of the block and the connected duplexes, quiet and dark. The opposite side of the street, with its little houses and quaint picket fences and mid-sized sedans in the driveways, didn’t set off any alarms in Zayn’s head. No flowers left at his front door.

So he parked in the alley and told Harry to stay in the car until he said so. And also to trust him. Harry, wide-eyed and slurring worse than ever from the shots of tequila his drummer bought him, thankfully complied. Zayn didn’t grab for his gun as he did a quick sweep, but he did reach back under his shirt to hold it under his waistband just in case. He has quick reflexes and needed to be able to point it in a strange man’s face if he had to.

The back door hadn’t been tampered with again, which had him relieved. He did a sweep through each room, for anything out of place, any flower petals or notes or maps left for him to find. Jesse hadn’t fucked with his toiletries in the bathroom, which was nice of him, and the front window was still completely covered by the curtains.

When Zayn headed back to the car to collect Harry, he knew they had A Talk ahead of them. Even as Harry fell onto the couch and removed his boots and jacket with wild arms, Zayn could tell. Harry had that look in his eye. It was the same look from the station that said he didn’t trust what was happening, he wasn’t happy, and Zayn had better start talking.

So Zayn paces. Towards the window, then back into the kitchen. He passes Harry who now lays on the couch with a water bottle, wide awake and watching him like a hawk. He heads into the hallway, then back towards the couch, and then to the front door. He shoves his face up to the peephole and checks outside one more time, just in case. He also tests the lock and the deadbolt, to make sure they’re secure.

“Is this about the case?” Harry asks from the couch, pulling Zayn’s entire focus back where it should be.

Zayn’s eyes dart up and over Harry’s head. _Shit, do I lie to him yet again? Do I keep this close until I know for sure what’s going to happen?_

“Don’t lie to me,” Harry continues. “You just looked up. That means you’re about to lie.”

Zayn ruffles at that, annoyed that Harry knows the tactic. When Zayn questions someone on a scene, a guilty suspect looks up and to the left whenever they need to come up with a lie. A cover story. _Shit._

“You know I still can’t discuss the case.”

“I _was_ the case, Zayn. I was right in the fucking middle of it,” Harry gapes at him, shifting to sit upright to plant his bare feet on the floor. Ready to drag it out. “You can’t sit still right now. And you just made me _wait in your car,_ while you searched your own goddamn house with a _gun_ in your jeans.”

Zayn starts to cross his arms, but then at the last second actually does grab for his gun. His trusty Glock 19, safety in place. To put Harry at ease, he moves it to his chest holster he has hanging near the door, where it belongs. Harry, eyes still trained on him since he still hasn’t said anything, waits with his hands clasped.

“I don’t… I just got you back. I don’t want to freak you out. Or scare you away,” Zayn admits from near the window, his cheeks burning like he’s embarrassed. _I can’t let you leave._

Harry groans.

“Zayn. I’m sitting here on your couch, two days after you beat the ever living shit out of me,” he says, pointing to the floor where it happened, “after you found my DNA on my dead friend’s bed sheets. Don’t you think we’re fucked enough? That I’m already freaked out enough? I’d be long gone by now. To get the fuck out of this. Away from you. I told you, I throw myself into fires. I haven’t left.”

Zayn can’t help but nod. It’s what he’s been contemplating ever since they met: if their circumstances were just too much, too insane, too fucking irrational. Every odd stacked against them. If this is a fire, it’s been raging since the match was lit when Harry showed up on Zayn’s steps that first time.

And since Harry can practically read Zayn’s mind at the moment, he nods at Zayn like he gets it. _The odds are stacked, but we haven’t caved yet._

“I’m here, babe. You can’t keep me in the dark,” Harry says with his eyes wide open, the vulnerability practically dripping down his cheeks. “If you’re upset, you have to tell me why. If something is wrong, if you’re in trouble, _talk_ to me. That’s the only way this works.”

Zayn inhales deeply through his nose and exhales from the mouth. He cracks his knuckles and straightens his spine, before that thing happens where everything starts to shut down all at once. He can’t handle powering down, not when he has momentum after seeing the guy’s face, after realizing he’s seen him the whole fucking time and didn’t know it.

And Harry is right: he deserves to hear everything. He needs to stay safe, keep his eyes open too, make sure no one hurts him. Harry said it to Zayn days ago, so he repeats it in his head now.

_I don’t need to be saved, Zayn. You don’t need to worry about me. You don’t need to keep me locked up here._

Harry has to know the truth because Harry is smart. He has to keep himself safe.

“Just…” Zayn starts, rubbing at his temples, “try to remember that I’m… used to keeping shit to myself.”

“Ditto,” Harry practically scoffs, the _duh_ very much implied.

And isn’t that fair, since neither of them have really said much about who they are as people, or where exactly they come from. With a new “relationship,” all of that is supposed to come with time. But since they’ve been thrown together because of awful circumstances, shoved into the same space because of Zayn’s fear of the unknown creeping around his house, it all seems to be happening at warp speed. Too fast, too soon, so much shit to say, so much shit to get through.

But Zayn has to try. He has to make sure Harry understands that what they’re doing, they can’t stop yet. Not until Zayn has Destiny’s killer in handcuffs.

He turns to Harry and cracks his neck. He puts on his face of courage and conviction, that thing he learned from Jesse: to get someone to agree, go along with a plan, tell a secret. It was when Jesse smiled that one smile of his, his eyes bright and practically twinkling. It was magic, how Jesse could rope someone in to play Make Believe. He taught Zayn so much in such a short amount of time, and Zayn wishes yet again that he could thank him for it.

In the end, it’s all very one-sided. They come together on the couch like the first time, with Zayn’s head in Harry’s lap. With a hand in his hair, Harry graciously lets Zayn tell his story. It’s Jesse’s story, really. It’s the life and death of Jesse Klein, a child ripped from this world too fucking soon by a coward of a man. Zayn knows how he needs to do this, to tell it right, to make sure Harry understands. He doesn’t say where Jesse lived, or what his body looked like when he found it. He keeps it contained to begin with.

He tells it almost like he told the detectives, in bits and pieces. Things he remembered. The things he didn’t. It’s like Zayn is back there again, the minute details spilling out of him there on his couch, like he should be holding his hands out to catch them like spring raindrops.

He remembers the smell of the blanket he had over his head. The sounds of random cars zooming down 32nd, the sun room’s windows wide open for Zayn to hear the crickets in the grass. He can still taste his first cigarette on his tongue, can vaguely hear the rustling of clothing in the other room. The scuffle in a half-sleep he didn’t register until later. He remembers waking up alone, hopping from foot to foot for a few seconds, he had to pee so bad. So he walked out of that sun room and never really looked back. That was the end of his childhood, as he knew it.

Harry gasps when Zayn describes his best friend’s blood between his toes.

“I’ve never told anyone that before,” Zayn whispers, his face stricken. He hadn’t realized no one knew that, except for his parents and the police, how it felt like tacky Elmer’s glue, how it couldn’t possibly be real until it actually was.

“Oh babe,” Harry huffs, his voice wet.

Zayn can’t blame him. He hears what Harry must hear: the crack in his foundation, the defining moment of his pathetic little existence. A child who grew up too fast, who had to walk into a courtroom in an ill-fitting suit, to watch a man get put in prison for stabbing the boy who made him want to climb a mountain. As if through Harry’s ears, he catches the ways he’s never quite recovered: _I can never sleep, I hear voices inside my head, I think I talk to myself when I’m alone, I miss him, I loved him, I became a cop to save people because I couldn’t save him._

Zayn’s new life started after Jesse’s murder. He survived high school and college. He worked his ass off to get through the police academy, his head down, nose in books, Luke’s discerning eye. He wore a uniform for awhile, where he pulled over speeding cars, once saved a cat from a tree, played weekly UNO games with three kids on a South O street corner while their mom did crack in a stranger’s house. He placed those kids in a new home once they finally arrested her.

He moved up, became a junior detective, still stumbling and unsure of his path. He assisted case after case, saw what it meant to be in a gang up close, watched dead kid after dead kid wind up with scabbed faces and needles in their arms. Dead, dead, dead.

He made it on his own. The first case where he shifted the hair out of a dead girl’s face along the Missouri River, the water rushing in his ears close by, as her cold eyes stared up at him, bruised and battered like a rag doll. How momentous that day was because he knew without a doubt that it was his life’s purpose. The reason he was here at all. _Her name was Charlotte, by the way._

He solves cases, he puts cases to rest, he buries people. His life revolves around blood. Where to find it, how to study it, the DNA is carries. He doesn’t get close to anyone, he’s accepted that this is how he lives, he calls his parents once a month. He’s quiet, steady, and always has bags under his eyes. He doesn’t work out enough, he fucked Lexi for far too long, and some nights the guilt of everything compounded is so suffocating, he feels like he’s drowning.

He tries to survive. He makes sure his partner wakes him up for the big important cases and brings coffee. Case after case after case. Cases like Destiny May Houthakker the week before. Day 1.

_Zayn Malik, this is your life._

Harry moves to pull Zayn up off the couch so they can face each other. Not tipsy in the slightest anymore, no longer focused on the gun Zayn had in his hand to search his house, he leans in to kiss Zayn like he’s going to break. Zayn hates that, hates looking like some meek child searching for a hand to hold. Despite himself, he sinks into it, his fingers gripping Harry’s hair probably too tightly. Harry makes sure Zayn knows it’s not sexual, it’s sweet, it’s a button. The end of the night. It’s like he says _this is your story and I’m glad you told me._

Zayn indulges him for a few minutes, before pressing a hand to Harry’s chest.

“I’m not done,” he admits, licking Harry’s taste out of his mouth.

“We should sleep,” Harry says complacently, like it was Zayn’s idea to begin with. Like they should head into the bedroom and strip to their boxers and pass the fuck out after such an exhausting few days.

But he’s really not done.

“Jesse died in your house,” Zayn says, the words landing between them like an anvil.

Harry leans back so quickly, he almost ends up clean off the couch.

“What?”

“I – I knew when we pulled up outside the house that day, that something was wrong,” Zayn says with a quiver to his lip. He presses a finger at it, to stop the bleeding sure to follow. “Something was fucking wrong.”

“Wait, what?”

“Destiny,” Zayn tries to explain, moving up and off the couch to get it out. He tries to pace, but can’t move much. “She was stabbed twice just like Jesse. Inside the front door of the same house, once to the lower stomach and once to the chest. A cut on her cheek. Her arms folded over like a vampire.”

Harry blinks rapidly, his hands in his hair like he can’t understand.

“But you said the guy went to jail. The guy who killed your friend, you said he confessed. He did it.”

“Yes.”

“Then it doesn’t make sense. How… how did Destiny… who hurt her? Why did they – who did this? In our house, they…”

Zayn winces and decides to sit back down on the couch to grip Harry’s hand between his own. Harry, so warm and soft and steady. Zayn brings it up and presses the back of it to his mouth, his cheek, his forehead to hide his face. The only fucking saving grace is that Harry doesn’t pull his hand away. He doesn’t shift away like he’s disgusted or scared. He actually moves closer, shaking his head like he can’t believe it. But like he wants to understand.

“It was for me,” Zayn says quietly into Harry’s wrist. “The man who hurt her did it because of me. He wanted me to get called in, to see her, to be back in that house. It’s… it’s my fault somehow, and I’m sorry and I don’t know what – I don’t know what I did.”

“Fucking Christ,” Harry exhales as Zayn shakes his head.

He’s still not done.

“That’s why I acted so weird at the bar earlier. He was there, he finally showed himself. And that means he’s following me. He’s watching.”

“What the _fuck_ ,” Harry says in disbelief, mouth gaping.

Harry turns in a daze to look over at the front window covered by thick curtains. It must dawn on him, how Zayn freaked out when Harry opened the window that one night. The bad dream. The times Zayn requested for Harry to keep quiet, to stay inside, to wait in the car while he searched the place.

Zayn can sense the adrenaline begin to surge, to keep Harry’s hand in his. If it’s getting too heavy, if Harry tries to run, Zayn needs to prepare. He welcomes the surge, the rush to his extremities. _You can’t leave, I can’t let you leave._

“This isn’t your mess and I hate that you’re involved now. I hate that he’s seen you with me. I’m – sorry, Harry. I’m really sorry. But – ” Zayn says, unsure of how to end that sentence. Like he doesn’t have a choice anymore, like their fate has been sealed.

Harry stares at him, his eyes wide, and they both understand. _He’s seen you, babe. He knows who you are. And I can’t let you walk away from this until we catch him. You have to stay close. I can’t let you go yet._

It’s probably the most horrible way Zayn could ever envision this thing starting: by necessity, to keep Harry alive, to be moving targets for a nameless man somewhere out in the world. Harry can’t walk away now. Zayn won’t let him, not until it’s safe. _Then you can go. If you want to leave, you can leave. When it’s finished._

Harry nods. His hands shake and he starts to sweat along his hairline, but he nods. This is all they can do for now.

Harry goes to pull Zayn closer, but Zayn stops him one more time.

“I was the one to find my best friend’s body,” he whispers with a hand on Harry’s neck. “I refuse to find yours.”

Harry hurries to grab Zayn by the hair and pulls him in.

Zayn doesn’t get emotional often, but somehow he does then yet again. He's cried more in three days than he has in years. He lets himself silently cry into Harry’s neck, his mouth pressed against Harry’s skin like he wants to taste it. Harry shakes a bit, the longer it goes on, probably from pure fear. He had a friend get murdered in his house, which is awful enough, and now this.

It’s a testament to who they are and what they’ve somehow morphed into, the fact that Harry doesn’t run out the front door screaming his head off for help. He doesn’t ask where they go from here, if they have any leads, what his role is now. He doesn’t cry. The lead detective in his roommate’s murder investigation, the one who touched his dick and who he calls babe, the one who fucked up so royally that a man killed someone for it… cries all over him. And despite that, Harry moves even closer so that their chests touch.

In the same room where they wrestled each other to the floor, where a table full of roses taunted them day after day, they wipe their faces and apologize.

Harry’s in it now, he’s completely in the middle of it. The guy who sent flowers sent them both flowers, he went to Harry’s shows, he made sure they both knew they were being followed. Sardonic as it is, Zayn wonders if the stranger expected him to keep Harry in the dark. Push him away, tell him to run as fast he can, before any more pieces of the map show up. For a few lucid moments, before the crash happens and he can’t open his eyes, Zayn feels the surge of emotion from the bar. _I’m not a pussy and Harry isn’t either. He’s here. And I’m going to fucking find you._

Harry doesn’t drop Zayn’s hand and he doesn’t run.

 

\---

 

_March 26, 2019  
3:29 am_

Zayn winds Harry’s hair around his fingers. Head propped up on one elbow in his bed, Harry asleep on his stomach next to him, it’s too enticing not to. He peers down at the back of Harry’s head and wonders if he’s dreaming. If the place he’s gone to is good or if the dream is full of creeping strangers hidden in the shadows. He hopes Harry finds relief in his sleep, from the twinge of pain in his ribs, to the yellowing bruise creeping up into his hairline. Zayn shifts a stray curl away from his temple and tries not to touch it.

Careful not to pull, Zayn smooths the curls a bit. Harry’s hair is dry now, no longer wet or limp from the shower he had before crawling in beside Zayn a few hours ago. It was after they came up for air on the couch, their mouths dry from all of the talking and whispering. Harry’s bottom lip was so red from Zayn’s teeth, it was like he had lipstick on. It was Harry who made Zayn relax, unclench his hands and try to rest. They each took a shower, Zayn first and then Harry, to take a few minutes to collect their thoughts.

Poor Harry, exhausted and wrung out like a gym towel, wearing a pair of Zayn’s shorts to match the ones he had on. Hair fanned out on Zayn’s favorite pillow with the blanket clutched in his hands like he was being tucked in after a scary as fuck bedtime story. He looked over at Zayn with heavy eyes.

“Have you been sleeping?”

Zayn only shook his head. _I never can. We’re the same now._

“Me neither,” Harry frowned. Disappointed in himself. Afraid that even in his exhaustion, sleep would evade him yet again.

Zayn knows that feeling well, and tonight, they just can’t do it. The last few days have been fucking crazy; they need to rest. Really, truly rest.

“Let’s try, babe,” Zayn whispered, kissing each of Harry’s lids to make sure he closed them.

The second he shifted onto his side with a hand under his cheek, Harry was dead to the world. His snores were light and Zayn vowed to make fun of him for it in the morning as he shut his eyes to follow.

But as always, Zayn can never sleep longer than two to three hours. He woke up curled around Harry’s sleeping form a few minutes before and couldn’t bring himself to move from the bed. Not only would the movement probably jostle Harry and wake him up, but it would also mean that Zayn couldn’t continue to do this. To watch and feel. To have their legs in mirrored positions, Harry’s ass up against Zayn’s groin. Nothing sexual about it, just a warm, safe place of their own.

_I have a boy in my bed. He’s fucking beautiful and he’s all mine._

Harry sniffs in his sleep and turns over onto his other side. He faces Zayn and rubs a hand over his nose. Allergies. Zayn makes sure to keep still until Harry settles again, and then goes right back to his hair. The dark bruise under Harry’s eye stands out stark in the low light of the room, his breath huffing out against Zayn’s bare chest. It sends a shiver down Zayn’s spine, his nipple actually perking up. Thankfully Jesse doesn’t comment on it, wherever he is. He’s been quiet all night. Zayn should thank him later.

In the silence, Zayn uses his trained ears to search for out-of-place sounds. The doors are dead bolted, the windows locked tight. A curtain covers every pane of glass in the apartment. No one can get in and no one can watch the two of them sleep. At least for the night, Zayn should be able to come down. He should be able to forget what’s happening to them, the files he still needs to comb through with Ceej, the fact that he needs to clean his gun, in case he needs it.

For a few hours, he can know peace. He can tuck hair behind Harry’s ear and kiss his forehead, careful not to split his lip again and bleed on him.

Zayn’s not sure how many minutes pass, but then he blinks and tilts his head down as Harry wakes up. He feels Harry stretch a bit, his toes pointing as he turns onto his back with a half yawn, half grunt.

_I should get you water. Or make you food. I should rub the knots out of your back. Or I should make you go back to sleep. You need to sleep._

Zayn furrows his brow and continues to watch Harry come to. It’s still so late, or maybe it’s too early, to wake up and face anything. Waking up means going to work, putting in the hours to catch the killer, hurling himself out into the big, scary world.

_I’m not ready yet._

Harry blinks awake, his hands sliding under the pillow as he stretches further, his bare torso about a mile long. In a daze, still hovering over Harry with his head in his hand, Zayn lets his other hand wander. His fingers trail Harry’s jaw, down his neck, over a collarbone. He watches his own hand flatten, his palm skirting over Harry’s right nipple, down the center of his stomach, all the way to the sparse hair peeking out over his second favorite pair of shorts. He scratches Harry there, just a little, and revels in the sound of fingernails on skin.

When he glances up to Harry’s face, he doesn’t know what he expects to see there. The sliver of light in the room reveals Harry’s perfect, blank, passive face. The face he makes when he’s trying to get a read on a situation, when he’s studying Zayn, trying to figure out what’s coming next.

Zayn blinks.

He gives Harry a clue when he moves his hand back up Harry’s stomach and chest, his fingertips hovering on Harry’s neck, before turning him by the jaw. Suddenly they’re both wide awake. Zayn kisses Harry on the mouth, not sweet or timid like earlier. It’s a kiss with a purpose and Harry takes it as good as he gives. Zayn works his mouth open with his tongue, both of them careful of his lip, as his hand continues to roam.

Harry’s hip. Rib cage. Bicep. The hand stuffed under Zayn’s pillow, their fingers intertwining for just a moment.

A nipple. Stomach. Back to the rough hair above his grown that he must not have trimmed in awhile, Zayn’s nails raking through it until Harry exhales a sharp breath into Zayn’s mouth.

Zayn eventually peels himself away, his tongue flicking out over Harry’s bottom lip as a goodbye. He shifts down the bed until he’s on his knees between Harry’s legs. Both of their chests heaving slightly, he stares Harry down.

Both hands now, on ankles. Calves. Backs of Harry’s knees as Zayn spreads his legs wider. Inner thighs. Outer thighs. Harry murmurs something to himself, his eyelids fluttering, as Zayn brings his palm down on his cock. Harry is so hard, so restricted by fabric, it’s like it hurts when Zayn applies pressure. His face scrunches, his upper lip shining, as Zayn finally feels how thick he is.

Zayn moves so that he can kiss the top of Harry’s sternum, his tongue hot and wet against each nipple, into the dip of his diaphragm. With quick hands he grips Harry by the hips just once, before leaning back to take off his shorts. Harry scrambles a bit, pistons his hips up to help Zayn out. But Zayn slows him down, shakes his head just once so Harry understands: _this is my favorite part, the look on your face when you let me get you naked._

Harry bites his lip and grabs at the underside of the pillow. Zayn smirks. The shorts come off slowly and are tossed to the floor, and then Zayn’s right back to Harry’s neck, his chest, a nipple between his teeth until Harry hisses. Zayn almost smiles because somewhere deep down, he knew Harry would be into that.

He kisses Harry everywhere. Bites, but only just. He can’t make it hurt, can’t break Harry’s skin. Skin is so delicate, so precious, he can’t draw blood. He makes sure to bear down each time as he moves south, to press his chest and stomach against Harry’s cock, already wet and red. He’s thick, almost too thick if Zayn’s honest, if he were the one taking it. But for this, for what he’s going to do, it’s perfect.

He doesn’t do much more until Harry spreads his legs wider, his breathing uneven, staccatoed, like he would beg for it if he could. But Zayn knows the signs: Harry licking his lips, swallowing, trying to get some saliva back in his cotton mouth because he’s too fucked up to even speak.

Zayn wants Harry to show him what he wants, how he wants it. Harry must understand because he squirms a bit, his hands peeking out from under the pillow to grip the wrought iron headboard behind him.

Zayn watches him plant his feet on either side of Zayn’s thighs, his knees falling open, laid out like a fucking buffet. It’s Zayn’s turn to lick his lips and get some saliva going. Because this is his second favorite part: _I’m gonna touch you now, I’m not gonna question myself, just gonna to listen to the sounds you make._

Sure enough, when Zayn slowly brings a hand to his mouth to wet his fingers, the heels of Harry’s feet dig into the backs of his thighs to pull him closer. Zayn smirks and licks his fingers before going in for the kill. Harry, spread so wide for him, his hole jumping as Zayn presses two fingers against it.

Harry moans, the first true sound he’s made so far, and it goes straight to Zayn’s dick. His eyes darken as he tilts his chin down, the twisted look on Harry’s face burned into his retinas.

Zayn doesn’t move his hand, or do anything more than feel with the pads of his fingers. He just wants to watch Harry react to the pressure. See how long he’ll take it, his thick cock jumping every time Zayn holds steady at his entrance, before falling back to curve up to his hipbone. Harry grunts, moans, exhales through his nose as he tries to keep his eyes open. It’s a tease and he takes it willingly.

_You sound fucking perfect._

Zayn lets him writhe for a few more minutes, his heels on the bed, trying to circle his hips a bit. He wants Zayn’s fingers inside him. He wants more. So Zayn brings his hand back to his mouth, spits onto his fingers, and then gets back to it. Two fingertips breaching Harry, his moans louder than ever. Zayn watches him sweat, does the thing Harry does so well by keeping his face plain, emotionless, passive. Like he could do this all night. Slow. Steady.

But he won’t because he wants Harry to have everything. He removes his fingers and grabs for the lube and condom from his bedside table drawer. Harry takes those few seconds to close his eyes, chin jutting towards the ceiling, lungs heaving.

Zayn settles himself on his stomach, his erection still covered by his shorts, pressed into the mattress. He peers over the swell of Harry’s cock to see Harry staring down at him. Eyes blown wide and black. Waiting. Still wanting more.

He grabs Harry by the underside of his thighs and then up to his lower back, to hold Harry in place. And without any preamble, Zayn lowers his mouth to the crease of Harry’s thigh. He kisses there just once before shifting over to mouth at his balls. Harry throws his head back with another loud exhale, the veins in his neck straining, as Zayn kisses them, sucks them, tongues at the underside of his cock. It’s still a fucking tease, so he fast as anything flicks his tongue at the cut head of Harry’s cock and sucks it into his mouth.

“Fuck,” Harry finally grunts, both hands suddenly grabbing Zayn by the hair.

Zayn loves the feeling of being pushed, the hot smooth skin of a man between his lips, making him go faster. Fucking his face. Harry makes this sound, this delicious sound, when he deep throats him. He bobs his head, suctioning on the upstroke, until he feels Harry’s legs trembling. Harry grips his hair harder, shoves Zayn’s face down onto his dick. So Zayn moves his hands to bring Harry’s thighs up onto his shoulders. Better access.

He brings two fingers back to Harry’s hole, no longer wet, just rough and dry and so not prepared for this at all. He lets two fingertips linger against him, then presses his thumb into Harry’s perineum, until Harry bucks up off the bed with wild abandon. Zayn sucks harder and does it again: finger tips at Harry’s asshole, thumb at the stretch of skin under his balls.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Harry blabbers above him, fingers so tight in Zayn’s hair, he starts to see stars blinking in his eyes.

He sucks harder. Faster. Wiggles one fingertip into the tight circle of Harry’s hole.

And then Harry’s coming. His back arches and a foot slaps at Zayn’s lower back, as he blows a load down Zayn’s throat. Zayn tries to grab for Harry’s hips to control his movements somewhat, to make sure his bruised ribs are okay, but he can’t seem to get anything to work other than his mouth. His eyes slam shut as Harry pumps into his mouth, the head bumping at the back of Zayn’s throat, until he actively has to tell himself _don’t choke, don’t choke, relax, relax._

When he comes up for air, he opens his eyes to see Harry basically star-fished in the middle the bed. Arms up and out to his sides, legs spread as wide as they’ll go. He has that dumb look on his face, the one with half a smile and the beginnings of a wink.

Zayn licks his lips and tries to breath, the taste of Harry sitting in the corners of his mouth. He notices a few drops of come he somehow let slip out, so he kisses and licks at Harry’s hipbone. He even sucks Harry back into his mouth for a few seconds, really finishes him off good, until Harry has to circle his hand around himself and pull out.

Zayn hurries to fall on his back, removes his shorts, and turns back over to get up on his knees. He spits into his palm and works his dick over a few times, the drag of his hand _so fucking good_ after days without relief. Harry, still coming down from the high, moves a foot so he can toe at Zayn’s stomach to keep going. To move his hand faster. To get a move on.

Zayn stares Harry down again, doesn’t watch the movement of his hand. He wants to watch Harry watch him. He wants to see the sweat along Harry’s temples, the hungry look in his eye as he takes in the sight of Zayn’s cock for the first time. Zayn’s been told he looks good like this: debauched and needy, while also taking ownership of his own pleasure. Relishing in it, enjoying himself, a hand skirting over his own stomach and to his chest.

Only when it seems like Harry can take it, can do it all over again, does Zayn reach for the condom. And as if on cue, Harry sits all the way up so he can press his mouth to the dip between Zayn’s collarbones, up to his neck, teeth making a few red marks. Zayn’s eyes almost cross as Harry’s hands wind around his waist, to the small of his back, down over the curve of his ass cheeks. Harry pulls him even closer, leans down to take Zayn’s prick in his mouth as Zayn tries to open the condom wrapper.

“Shit, babe,” Zayn whispers as Harry sucks him, his fingers fumbling.

Right as Harry hears the tear in the wrapper, he leans back on his hands. Zayn stares at him from the same position, on his knees between Harry’s legs, as Harry cocks his head to one side. He looks like’s hanging out on the fucking beach, face towards the sky to catch some sun, chest open. Zayn wonders what Harry’s thinking. They’ve gone so long now, ever since they woke up, in a blissfully unaware calm. No worries, no problems, just two men set out to fuck and be fucked and lose themselves. Zayn can’t stop the niggling thought that Harry could ruin it then, with whatever’s on his mind.

But Harry’s so good, fucking great, because he just smiles.

“How do you want me?” Harry says in his low, husky voice. Masculine. Strong. Zayn wonders if it’s Harry reminding him: _I’m a man and I can take whatever you give me. Don’t be gentle._

Zayn licks his lips and starts to pinch at the condom for when they need it.

“Turn over.”

Harry smiles wickedly.

“You want me on my hands and knees?”

Zayn nods.

“You don’t want me to ride you?”

With a smirk, Zayn’s nose twitches.

“Next time,” he says.

Harry seems delighted by the thought of next time, so he kisses Zayn’s chest once more and heaves himself over onto his knees.

So maybe _this_ is Zayn’s favorite part, the offering up of such a gorgeous body part. It’s when the work comes into play, the dedication and focus to make sure it’s good. To make sure it’s safe and comfortable, a hand on the lower back to coax relaxation as Harry drops down to his forearms. Zayn can’t help the sound he makes as he holds a hand to Harry’s ass cheek, pulling it apart to see his hole. He felt it before with his fingers, but now he gets to see it up close, he gets to see it flutter. He takes in the strain Harry’s already under to keep himself still, his legs steady, a pillow under his forehead.

“That’s it,” Zayn whispers as he runs a dry finger from Harry’s balls up the cleft his ass, to press at it. _Yeah, this is my favorite part._

Harry makes a sound that has Zayn rolling his eyes. Because _of course_ he was just about to grab for the lube. He drizzles it straight down Harry’s ass, not giving a shit about the sheets, and then some in his hand.

With a hand between Harry’s shoulder blades, he finally earns it. He works a finger into Harry as they both breathe heavier, faster. Harry spreads his legs wider so he can get some leverage, and before he’s even really ready for it, he’s rocking back onto Zayn’s finger. In quiet disbelief, his head shaking, Zayn lets him have at it. He keeps his wrist rigid, palm towards the ceiling, as Harry envelops his finger to the second knuckle.

Without wondering if he should, a few minutes later, Zayn adds a second. He knows Harry can take it, the slight twist to Harry’s spine only making it better. More intense. Zayn doesn’t want to curl them yet, doesn’t want to overwhelm Harry before he’s fully hard again, so he just keeps them tight and straight. Let’s Harry ride them some more.

“Shit,” Harry says, voice muffled in the pillow, thighs tight like pulled rubber bands.

Zayn runs his other hand up and down Harry’s back to make sure he’s good, to keep him grounded. Every so often he’ll move it from his back down to his ass cheek, to pull it some so he can watch his own fingers gliding in and out. Then he moves it around to Harry’s front, nails in the hair above his groin until Harry hisses at the sensation.

When he grips Harry’s cock in his hand and finds him as hard as the first time, he slowly twists his fingers so his hand is palm-down. The movement has Harry arching his back, his face up and off the pillow, to cry out into the room.

“Zayn,” he tries to say, but it comes out like more of a sound than an actual name.

So Zayn hums like he needs Harry to speak up, which has Harry tossing his hair to glare at him playfully over his shoulder.

“Yeah?” Zayn plays dumb, finally curving his fingers down to find that sweet spot.

He knows he’s done it when Harry’s entire body clenches up. Zayn massages the rough pad of his prostate with both fingertips as Harry hisses and shoves his ass at him.

“Yeah,” Zayn answers himself with a nod, doing it again. And again.

“ _Shit,_ ” Harry yells, scrambling for the pillow once more, to muffle his voice.

Zayn almost hopes his neighbors hear Harry like this. He’s never had a boy be this loud in his bed before, and it’s as thrilling as it is nerve-wracking. Sex has never been this good, this spine tingling. Harry reaches a hand back and tries to hold onto Zayn’s wrist, like he wants to set the pace himself. But he’s too crazed, Harry’s limbs aren’t listening to his brain and he grasps at thin air. So Zayn goes for his wrist with his free hand and holds it behind Harry’s back, right over top of his ass, as he fucks his widened fingers into Harry. He scissors them a few times, really pushes Harry to the limit, until Harry yells out again.

_I love that sound._

“I’m good, I’m good,” Harry eventually groans, removing his face from the pillow to breathe fresh air. It’s the most coherent thing either of them have said in awhile, and Zayn sort of loves that they don’t talk through this. No questions, no dirty talk, nothing. Just fingers and hands and spit. Bodies moving together. Seeking a warm place to fuck up into, a mouth, an entrance.

Zayn nods to refocus. He doesn’t need to be told twice, the switch in his testosterone-filled brain suddenly On, needing to find release. _Hurry, hurry, come on Zayn, do it, do it._ He tries to gently remove his fingers so as not to hurt Harry, before scrambling for the condom.

He pinches it, slides it on and slicks himself up in about fifteen seconds. A new record. With his hand returned to Harry’s lower back, he grips himself and rubs the head against Harry’s wonderfully slick hole. Harry waits patiently, his teeth in his own forearm, until Zayn finally starts to push inside.

“Oh shit,” Zayn practically whimpers as the stretched muscle pulls him in.

So much tighter than a girl, fucking perfect, everything he’s been missing. All in one fluid motion, until their thighs are stuck together with sweat, Zayn remembers this feeling like the back of his hand. The _this is so fucking wrong it’s right_ feeling. Harry must feel it too because he throws his head back and whines this pitiful whine, like he’s expecting it to hurt and is surprised to find that it doesn’t. Zayn isn’t worried for Harry, can tell it’s as good for him as it is for Zayn, the two of them holding still until Harry can shift on his knees for leverage again.

That’s when Zayn pulls halfway out, slowly, before fucking him good. Fucking him _hard_. He slams his hips forward, grunts, as he moves both hands to Harry’s narrow waist. The only sounds in the room, in the whole house, come from Harry’s dry, groaning mouth and the slapping of skin on skin.

Harry murmurs nonsensical things, his syllables lost as Zayn fucks him over and over again. Zayn can’t decide where he wants to touch, so he keeps moving his hands from Harry’s hips, to his front upper thighs to pull Harry back onto his cock, up to his shoulders. He pulls at Harry’s hair a few times, forces Harry’s head back, but worries about the bruises they both still wear. The places they need to be wary of.

Zayn needs Harry to come when he does, needs it to be together, so when he begins to dance too close to the edge, he pulls Harry up by the biceps. Harry goes a bit dizzy as he shifts up onto his knees, Zayn’s dick never even slipping out. Zayn remembered how Harry asked if he was going to ride Zayn, so he wants to give Harry a taste.

Zayn sits back until his heels meet his ass, Harry’s spread thighs on either side of his, until Harry’s seated on his dick and they’re both staring up at the ceiling. It’s Harry’s turn to find a place for his hands: up to reach back for Zayn’s hair, to pull, down to scratch his own thighs, Zayn’s thighs. He bounces on Zayn’s lap and cries out that he’s close.

Zayn redoubles his efforts. He wraps an arm around Harry’s middle and fucks up as Harry bears down, his other hand cupping Harry’s jaw. He wants to feel the beginnings of stubble there, the tangle of his hair, the sweat, before gripping Harry’s dick in his hand. He savors just this, the pure adrenaline rush that doesn’t hurt one bit, that doesn’t signify danger or fear or the unknown coming to call. He used to think he was dead already, but he knows right then, when Harry says his name four times in a row, repeating a word just like Zayn does, that he knows.

_I’m alive, I’m here._

He tightens his grip around Harry’s torso, his mouth hot on Harry’s back and fucks up as fast as he can. He’s exhausted, fucking spent, but he can’t stop. His balls smack at Harry’s thighs and Harry’s jaw trembles slightly under Zayn’s hand.

When he feels a distinct drop of moisture land on the back of his wrist, the wetness in Harry’s moans, he tightens the hold around Harry’s waist.

“I got you, babe,” Zayn whispers with renewed conviction.

He sinks his teeth into Harry’s shoulder and finally grips Harry’s cock in his hand, twisting his wrist.

It’s erratic, the speed, the pace, not in any way in-time with his thrusts, but it doesn’t matter. They crest at the top of the hill, Zayn grunting into Harry’s skin as he fucks into him one last time and comes. It’s like his brain fizzles out as he releases in the condom, the heat emanating off of Harry in waves. Harry yells out as his hand flies down to join Zayn’s, the both of them pulling him off until he begins to bend at the waist. Zayn lays his forehead on Harry’s back, right as he jerks forward. Zayn holds him up, stripes of come painting Zayn’s favorite fucking pillow.

They breathe too unevenly, out of sync, and Zayn hears Harry chuckle a bit as he eyes the pillow. They come down and Harry shifts off of Zayn to collapse down onto his stomach. Zayn falls backward, his head at the end of the bed, their legs tangled up together somewhere in the middle. He ties off the condom and throws it over his head, praying to every god there is that it lands in the trash can in the corner. Somewhere down by his feet, Zayn feels a hand encircle his ankle and kiss it. The only place Harry can reach.

If he could move, Zayn would move up to lay his head next to Harry. He swears it. But he’s smiling and he’s already there, he’s exhausted, so he stays put and tugs on the blanket to lay it over them.

In the end, Harry’s the one to come to him. He shifts so that he can curl up to Zayn’s side, his hand flat on Zayn’s stomach. They’re disgusting, but they don’t move. They fall back asleep without pillows, at the opposite end of the bed, as two halves to a complete and utter mess.

 

\---

 

_March 26, 2019  
4:45 am_

Zayn’s finger curls around the trigger of his gun, held up in ready position there against the front door. He keeps his back against the wood for the time being, to assess the space, to look and listen before he moves.

Moments before when Zayn jerked awake in bed, from a sound out in the main room, something clicked back into place as he hurried to find shorts and get to his gun.

He’s not the guy who can just fuck his boyfriend, or whatever Harry is, and peacefully drift off to sleep again. He’s not the guy who gets to wake Harry with breakfast in bed, or with a blowjob, or a kiss on the cheek, like everything is normal. Like everything is fine.

Zayn is _this_ guy, the detective in the middle of a murder investigation, who gets a few moments of reprieve by way of a good late night fuck, before delving right back into insanity.

His brows draw together as he listens.

Nothing, just silence, the ticking of the clock on the kitchen wall. Zayn quietly sidesteps away from the front door, keeping his back to a wall at all times, gun held up like he was taught. Knees flexed to absorb recoil and to act as shock absorbers when moving in any direction. Leans slightly forward and extends his arms straight out, head level to maintain balance. He moves into the living room and quickly clears it, eyes darting from the couch to the window and back again.

The kitchen is also clear. Nothing has been moved, the door is still as locked as the front door. The only sound is the sink dripping, which he’s been meaning to get fixed.

Jesse Klein is a fucking dick, because he chooses that moment to flutter a curtain in Zayn’s peripheral vision. In a huff, Zayn lowers his gun because of fucking course it was Jesse who made the noise. He probably snapped a kitchen cabinet, just to fuck with Zayn as he tried to get more sleep. _I should’ve known better._

“Fuck off,” Zayn actually says out loud, rolling his eyes. “Of all the fucking nights to do this, Jess. Really?”

When he crawls back into bed, it’s right as Harry cracks open an eye and reaches out a hand for him. Harry’s on his side, his air-dried hair frizzy and matted against his face. Zayn smiles at it, tries to move it out of Harry’s mouth, and settles next to him. He can still hear the rapid beating of his own heart, the way his breathing hasn’t leveled. All the signs are there, of someone who was just scared half to death.

Harry rubs at one of his eyes and slips a cool hand under the waistband of Zayn’s shorts to hold onto his hip, worried. Zayn missed that: small touches with someone, to calm down after a rough day, to relax after a strenuous and lengthy fuck. And he loves that Harry wants to touch him all the time, since he’s pretty sure he won’t be able to stop touching Harry either.

Harry leans in and presses a kiss above Zayn’s left nipple, before laying his head down on his chest. His ear over Zayn’s heart.

“You good?” Harry mumbles. "Everything okay?"

“I’m good. Go back to sleep,” Zayn shushes him.

“Who were you talking to?”

Zayn shifts them so he can be on his side instead, so that Harry won’t listen for the movement in his chest any longer. He tucks a leg over one of Harry’s, who is still naked and a bit flushed. He kisses at Harry’s shoulder and tries to quiet him again, to relax and forget it.

“Tell me,” Harry says, voice stronger, leaning back to stare at him. “You have to tell me things now.”

Zayn winces at that, not only because it’s true, but also because he does have one more thing to tell Harry. It’s something he avoids with pretty much anyone he’s ever met, his “coping mechanism,” for lack of a better term. It’s just another piece of the Jenga tower he has to remove, slow and steady, to see if it falls once and for all, if this will be the part that finally has Harry side-eyeing him.

Harry brings a hand to Zayn’s chin and pulls at the hair there.

“One of these nights,” he says in a playful tone, “I’m going to tell you all about _me_ , babe. The little things, the shit I hide. The shit no one knows.”

Zayn can’t help but laugh at that, the fact that he's practically cut his own chest open and shown Harry everything. But doesn't even know Harry's birthday.

“It’s not just you who usually keeps it all locked up,” Harry says. “And once I know all of it, I won’t have to ask again.”

_That’s fair. And if I have to keep you close until this thing is over, probably better to get it over with._

Zayn sighs, his breath sweeping over Harry’s face. It’s easier when his eyes are closed.

“Sometimes I… hear Jesse. Or like, I can hear the things Jesse would say, if he were still here, if that makes sense. Or… sometimes it’s like I can hear him moving things. Like he’s trying to get me to pay attention.”

When he opens an eye to gauge Harry’s expression, he sees a calmness there that he wasn’t expecting. He knows it sounds insane, he knows it’s fucking stupid to imagine Jesse or hear Jesse. But sometimes he swears it’s true, that Jesse is there, fingers on the curtains, knocking shit over, playing up in the attic crawl space.

“Do you hear him right now?” Harry asks, his gaze drifting up towards the ceiling, expecting a noise.

“No.”

_I sound fucking ridiculous. This is ridiculous, I know it’s ridiculous, to believe in ghosts. But they’re real. I swore I heard them that night, and so many nights since. Jesse didn’t disappear._

He shuts his eyes again.

“I know it’s stupid to believe in… ghosts or whatever. Or to believe in something else, beyond… _us_. But I’ve been doing it ever since I was a teenager. It… helps, I guess.”

“That’s not stupid, babe,” Harry says quietly, moving closer so they’re nose to nose.

“No?”

“If you say you hear him, then you hear him.”

“Do you think I’m crazy?”

“I don’t think you’re crazy at all,” Harry says with a slight frown. “It’s the same as we said before: sometimes kids come up with things to fit their stories. Your story was Jesse. So you hear him, you keep him with you, so you don’t feel alone.”

Zayn has to remind himself to blink. He focuses on his breathing so he doesn’t forget to do that either, as Harry’s words sink in. _I’m alone all the time, so I keep Jesse close. I always have._ It’s a moment of clarity and Zayn can’t quite comprehend how Harry seems to know him, deep down, on the cellular level.

“Where’d you come from?” Zayn wonders out loud, reaching for Harry’s barely-stubbled face. Somewhere Jesse must be smiling.

Harry doesn’t answer, just kisses the corner of his mouth.

“I want to know more about him,” Harry sighs, starting to blink slower and slower each time. “You can talk about him to me anytime you want, you know.”

“Alright,” Zayn whispers. And then, "You can talk to me about Destiny, too. If you want."

Harry bites his lip, like he's a few seconds from getting emotional. But then Zayn kisses him again, and he's okay.

A few more minutes and then Zayn finds himself blinking in time with Harry, his brain trying to shut down for more sleep. It's like Harry knows to kiss the other corner of his mouth as a _goodnight, maybe good morning, see you in a few hours._

Harry smiles at him, a small waning one as his eyelids flutter.

They’re asleep thirty seconds later.

 

\---

 

_March 26, 2019  
6:20 am_

Zayn comes to with a jolt. He shakes his head, unsure of where he is. Or why he’s suddenly conscious.

And then he knows.

The sun peaking in the wide open window of his bedroom, for anyone to look in and see, there they are in bed. Zayn with his hands around Harry’s throat.

He’s not sure when it started, or how he maneuvered Harry into such a vulnerable position, but there he is. Harry looks up at him with wide, bloodshot eyes, his face still freshly bloodied and bruised from Zayn’s fists, as he scrambles at Zayn’s forearms. He slaps at Zayn, tries to move out from under him, his silent face going red from the exertion.

But Zayn can’t let up. He bears his entire body down onto Harry. He uses every ounce of strength in him to crush Harry’s trachea, as Harry gapes at his sullen and set face. And honestly, it’s not even that hard, it doesn’t take much energy at all. Zayn just presses, squeezes, his fingers curled around Harry’s neck like it’s an old jar he can’t quite open.

Harry’s arms eventually drop down to the bed. He can’t blink anymore, his eyeballs too full of blood. His entire body goes limp, the oxygen in his bloodstream nonexistent. He officially starts to turn blue. Zayn cocks his head to the side and watches the light leaving Harry’s eyes. This is too easy, that can’t be right, it should take more force than this. _I shouldn’t be able to do it without second guessing it, but here I am. I always knew I had it in me. See, I'm not dead after all.  
_

As it winds down at the end, Zayn can tell: Harry is close to dying. He’s right on the brink. Zayn grits his teeth and squeezes Harry’s neck so hard, he finally feels a _pop_. He just needs a few more seconds.

Like his body doesn’t even belong to him, Zayn leans down until their noses almost touch.

“You knew this would end badly,” he whispers to Harry like he’s disappointed. “You knew this was dangerous, that I was dangerous, and you didn’t run.”

Somewhere, Jesse makes a sound.

Harry’s eyes roll all the way back in his head and at long last, he stills completely.

 

\---

 

_March 26, 2019  
6:27 am_

_“Zayn!”_

Harry’s voice slices through the air, hitting Zayn across the face like a slap. His eyes snap open and he realizes he’s on his side, bare back up against the cold wall of his bedroom like he was trying to get away from someone.

Harry gapes at him as he almost starts to cry, the adrenaline surge making Zayn's feet curl up into full charley horses. He’s dripping in sweat. It felt real, his hands are still clenched and aching, he can’t breathe. It felt _real_ , it seemed _real_ , so he pounds a fist against his forehead over and over until white flashing dots appear in his vision. _Nice and safe, nice and safe, nice and safe. Fuck, fuck, fuck._ He has to make sure he’s awake, really awake, the dream is done, it’s over.

When he’s positive, when he feels himself shivering like a real human person instead of the soulless dream version of himself, he opens his eyes again to take in his surroundings.

Harry, still there, still in Zayn’s bed, naked, on his side.

He stares at Zayn with unblinking eyes, in disbelief.

Zayn’s not sure what he said or did in his sleep, what was loud enough for Harry to hear and be woken up by. But as he tastes the blood in his mouth from his lip and his fingers ache, as Harry starts to recoil from him, he knows it must’ve been bad.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The way the dates fell is honestly coincidental. Oops! :)


	5. DAYS 8 AND 9

**DAY 8**

_August 20, 2002  
10:29 am_

The priest sure likes to ramble.

He rambles on and on about Jesse Klein, so young at only thirteen, bright and fun, as if he knew him at all. Zayn’s mind wanders the longer they sit there in the uncomfortable pews of the church with the Mary statue outside.

His mind does that a lot lately. Leaves the ground.

The priest tells the congregation about Jesse’s best days. But he uses a bunch of big words that seem unnecessary, especially when it comes to describing a child. Zayn rolls his head on his neck and stares up into the rafters, as he wonders if priests get paid by the word. His dad told him once, when he was sat at the dining room table with about six stacks of contracts, that the reason contracts are so long and wordy is because a hundred years ago, the lawyers who used to draft them were paid for each word. More words, more money. Lawyer language, with its “here-to-fore” and “in perpetuity” stuff. It apparently used to serve a purpose, and the more confusing or longwinded the wording was, the better.

Contracts were boring and impossible to read through. Zayn barely ever tried, even when his dad wanted to show him what he did for a living right before Take Your Kid to Work Day.

Maybe priests are the same. Maybe they make their sermons as long as possible, to preach to their congregations about sinners and saints, to make their money. Do priests make money? Do they do it for free?

Zayn’s mind continues to wander during the funeral sermon, which is terrible and he’ll probably kick himself for it later. It’s not the time to zone out, not as Jesse’s best friend and the one who found him with his blood all over the floor. But sitting there between his parents in the shoes that pinch his toes, surrounded by cries and sniffles, Zayn couldn’t focus. The doctor said he might have trouble with that for a while: centering on the present, having awareness for his actions, concentrating on current tasks.

That morning he brushed his teeth for almost fifteen minutes straight, so maybe it’s already started.

He feels his baba grip him around the shoulders, a tight hold like he was afraid Zayn would float away. That’s another thing the doctor warned about: emotional parents, holding on too tight, scared to let him out of their sight. Luckily his parents know not to hold him until it hurts, when the panic attacks set in and all he can picture is his own blood dripping down his shirt and shorts.

Since Zayn can’t concentrate or keep his thoughts in a neat row, he hasn’t returned to school yet. Even then, he’s not sure when his mother will even allow it, ever since he expressed in a fit of rage that they’d probably give Jesse’s desk away to some new kid. So no school yet. Nothing beyond his own bedroom.

The doctor gets it. Maybe she’s treated other little boys who found their dead best friends.

People begin to cross themselves. The Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost. Zayn tries but his hands don’t work sometimes. So it sort of just flops back into his lap. And then it’s his mom’s turn, to turn towards him and bury her face in his hair. Zayn hates his messy hair, how thick it is, and he especially hates when his mother smells him like he’s a newborn baby or something. But he lets her, he lets both of them fawn all over him, because some parents lose their babies and some parents have to bury them.

Marcy Klein hasn’t cried all morning, but she starts to then as it begins to wind down. It’s like her body knows they’ll all make their way to the burial site soon, to the place where they’ll throw dirt on top of Jesse. She shakes, her entire body wracking in sobs, as the priest begins to wrap up his Jesse speech. It’s almost over and the priest must need a few extra hundred, because he tells another story about Jesse and his siblings.

It’s almost over. Whatever else will be said today, will happen at the cemetery as they lower Jesse’s body into the ground. They’ll take the closed casket from up front, so no one beside Zayn had to see the ways Jesse was hurt, cut open, empty of blood, and they’ll put him in the ground.

“God always brings his children home, when it’s time,” Father Grimes laments with his hands crossed over his belly. “And as we all know, Jesse Klein was an angel. He was an angel called home, too early, too soon.”

Then it was Mike’s turn to cry, both of Jesse’s parents holding onto each other, while their best friends held onto Jesse’s siblings. They curled together, their faces touching, as they cried and cried over their oldest son.

“Jesse wanted us to be happy. Let’s not forget that. He was a boy who only wanted to bring joy, to witness joy, to see those around him laugh and have fun. He wanted us to fly. So when we have the chance to find joy, to embrace fun, to laugh… let us remember Jesse Klein.”

It sounded a bit too sweet for the boy Zayn knew. It didn’t sound like Jesse, the little jerk who reveled in chaos, created anarchy and unrest, who made sure the entire room knew he had entered it. He was a bit selfish sometimes. Cruel when he wanted to be. But Zayn tries not to think those things, he tries to focus, his hand finally moving up to slap at his forehead a few times. _Jesse was my best friend and he loved me, deep down._

Zayn wonders where he’ll find his joy. If he’ll ever smile or laugh ever again. It doesn’t seem possible. Not with his parents always crying, and the way his head won’t stop hurting, or how he can’t stop remembering Jesse’s laugh. Jesse’s joy, as if it were a real, tangible thing you could touch.

Zayn hits his forehead a few more times, until his dad holds his wrist down on his thigh instead. His parents cry harder every time he tries to hurt himself.

“Jesse wanted us all to laugh,” Father Grimes finishes, as the little choir stand up over to the right to begin another hymnal. “He wanted us to fly. Amen.”

_I would like to fly, I think. Someday, so they won’t worry about me anymore._

_Maybe someday I will._

 

\---

 

_March 26, 2019  
8:45 am _

_Silver._

It’s hazy, unclear, but it’s there. The shape of it is blurry and yet sharp.

In the fit of a dream, Zayn sees a flash of silver behind his eyelids, a slice of bright light cutting across his consciousness to wake him up. Fast and swift, it burns his retinas until they wrench open, and then he’s fully awake.

Dark. It’s all dark. Dark room, dark thoughts, a swirl of black.

He tries to gauge where he is, his eyelids fluttering over and over to let the small bit of light in. It’s his room, _my room_ , only lit by the sunlight streaming in from the one inch of exposed window between the curtains. _I’m here, I’m okay,_ he tries to soothe himself, even as he scrambles backwards and his shoulders hit the wall. It’s like after his dream earlier. Sweating, aching chest, a ball of anxiety swirling beneath his ribs.

There’s no silver anywhere near him, not a flash of metal or heat, nothing to reflect it. So it must’ve been in a dream, the color buried somewhere beneath the conscious surface. It felt real, it felt like the first flash of a warning, like there’s someone coming, a fox in the night.

In a daze, as Zayn further comes to, he realizes he’s alone. Harry isn’t next to him with wide eyes, his hand on Zayn’s chest, a voice in his ear whispering to calm down, to breathe. He doesn’t have Harry to grab him by the wrist, so he’ll stop hitting himself in the forehead, to stop muttering, to rest. He’s alone, his room is still, and he feels dizzy almost to the point of vomiting.

_Where did you go? Did you leave me?_

Zayn shakes his head, tries to rattle something into place.

_What did I do? Did I hurt you?_

He needs Harry.

_I always thought I was dead already, I didn’t know I could do this, I swear._

It’s then that he recognizes something clutched in his hands. He tries to get his blurry eyes to focus, but it’s difficult. It’s like when you first open your eyes in a swimming pool. Or for Zayn specifically, like when he was a kid and couldn’t grasp things in front of him: his eyes wandering, his brain fuzzy.

Every movement is difficult. But he blinks again and sees that it’s a rolled-up tshirt, damp from his sweaty palms, his sore knuckles white as they continue to cling onto it. He must have been squeezing it for the last hour or two, the entire time he fell back into a fitful sleep after his previous dream, like it was a lifeline.

Or a throat.

_A beautiful throat, warm and strong. It’s what makes your voice sound like that. It’s how you breathe and laugh and sing just to me. We had sex last night, amazing sex that had us seeing stars, and then I dreamt about hurting you._

Zayn slams his eyes shut once more, to pretend like everything is okay, and tries to let the shirt go. The dream felt so real, he could practically taste it. He remembers the phantom feeling of sitting on Harry’s chest, pressing his throat into the bed, the _pop_ that has him swallowing bile right then and there. The horrible look on Harry’s face as he died, his eyes bulged at Zayn’s smile and the words _you knew this was dangerous_. It felt real, it felt like it was something he had been thinking about for years, forever: how it would feel to watch the life drain out of a person.

He thought his dream about Harry killing _him_ was the worst thing he could experience while asleep. But he knows now that that he was wrong.

Shaking from head to toe, Zayn extracts himself from the bed. He hobbles over and pulls on a pair of pajama bottoms, his knuckles still white even as he tries to shake his hands out. He vaguely wonders what time it is; all he knows is that the sun’s out. He should probably think about going to the station soon. Or call CJ. There’s so much to do, so much work to be done now that he saw the man and texted CJ all the details. CJ’s probably been working for hours, Zayn should get dressed; he shouldn’t worry about Harry right now or where he’s gone.

He needs to focus on his case. _Destiny Destiny Destiny, who did this to you, why is he after me?_

Suddenly somewhere in the kitchen, Zayn hears the telltale sound of movement. Of a man in his house. But then the next second, he knows: it’s breakfast being made. A pan being set on the stove top, a hiss from the heat, crackling butter.

A breath escapes his lungs, because it’s Harry. It’s just Harry making a mess. Normally he’d be grabbing for his gun, scared shitless of his stalker being inside the house. But he can’t stop shaking and he has to hit his forehead a few more times, to cool off. That it’s okay, he didn’t hurt Harry, it’s Harry in the kitchen, breakfast, _it’s just Harry_ , relax, breathe.

Zayn then moves out into the hall on unsteady feet. He should’ve known that Harry wouldn’t leave, even if Zayn screamed in his sleep or really tried to choke him. Harry would at least explain it first, _I can’t do this, I can’t be around you, this is officially too much shit to handle._ But it’s encouraging that even if he’s angry or terrified of Zayn, of his hands and the things they’re capable of, Harry is still in the apartment. Harry, making food, making Zayn’s life easier and more balanced without even trying.

_Harry Harry Harry Harry. You’re here, nice and safe._

Right as there’s another clanging of pots and pans near the sink with a whispered _shit_ , Zayn leans his hands on the wall separating him from the kitchen and living room. He takes three seconds to breathe and ready himself for whatever he has to face. If he hurt Harry, screamed in his face, really did grip him by the neck to hold tight, well… he’s not sure how to come back from that. _I would never want to hurt you, not for real, not this way. And we’ve been doing so well._

He finally steps around the corner to see a fully clothed Harry rushing back and forth, from the stovetop over to the far counter near the back door. He has two pans going at once, with hash browns in one and the beginnings of a rather large omelet in the other. Zayn could’ve told Harry to chop up the veggies closer to the sink, so he wouldn’t have to run for each ingredient as he tossed them into the eggs. Onions, peppers, mushrooms. Three trips, his boots clicking on the tile, until Harry finally settles back at the hissing stove to poke at it with a spatula.

Onions, peppers, and mushrooms. Ingredients Zayn most definitely did not have in his refrigerator. Which means Harry must’ve been up this entire time, must’ve left at some point to go to the grocery store. Zayn’s eye twitches at the thought of Harry going somewhere alone when the sun hadn’t fully risen, but tries to remember to keep his mouth shut until he knows exactly what happened.

Zayn moves into the kitchen and wrings his hands together, already sweating again. He absolutely fucking hates this version of himself, the weak, quiet, apprehensive kind. This isn’t _him_ , this isn’t Detective Malik, who walks tall, who needs to head into his station to find a fucking murderer. But if he needs to do this, offer himself up, palms raised to ask for forgiveness, then he will. He’ll be weak if he has to be. If it’s for Harry. _If I hurt you, you can hurt me back._

Harry finally notices the movement near the table; he does a double take with wide eyes. He stops his movements and tries to hide the loud, messy breakfast being cooked behind his back.

“You’re awake,” he says innocently, the fading bruise under his eye as prominent as ever. Yellow, tinged with black.

Zayn nods, unsure of how to approach. Harry stayed, he’s still here, and there definitely aren’t any marks around his neck. Zayn’s breath hitches at that, the fact that he has to eyeball Harry to make sure he didn’t physically assault him in his sleep.

“Hey,” Zayn says quietly, as he realizes his voice is so hoarse it’s barely legible. He clears his throat to see if it helps, coughs into his fist, and then mumbles, “You’re up, too. You weren’t… in bed anymore.”

Harry finally gestures to the food behind his back. “I wanted to make you breakfast. I thought maybe you would be hungry, or… I don’t know, maybe I just like to cook when I’m in a mood.”

Zayn wants to ask what mood that could be, as Harry goes back to his spatula. But he needs to know what he did, what he said, in that dream. He needs to get it out and he wishes Harry would just get on with it. _Don’t make me say it, don’t make me ask you what I said or did, if I screamed, if I scared you, if it’s even worse now. I told you a man is stalking me, stalking us, and now you need to tell me if I hurt you. Just say it._ Zayn can’t help but grimace, his hand rubbing at his own throat.

Just then, with Harry now facing away from him, Zayn glances down and notices the kitchen table. It’s covered in both organized stacks of paper and random pages strewn around his open laptop. He also notes about fifteen pens and even more highlighters. The pages seem to be print outs, with indiscriminate tidbits and words written in the margins. Articles and lists, a few fanned out in a row, like Harry had been reading those last before he needed to tend to his two crackling pans.

Zayn uses his cop brain to quickly assess the contents of the table, to pick up the details, specifically Harry’s handwriting.

_Sleep pattern?_

_Lucid dreams = repressed memories_

_Memory? Remember it?_

_Hold onto an anchor when having a night terror._

Zayn’s jaw twitches. Harry comes over and rests a hand on Zayn’s lower back, starts asking about coffee, juice, or water. He says CJ called Zayn’s phone first thing, and that Harry answered, to not only make it clear to CJ that Harry stayed over, but that he knew it was important. That he was in the know, not in the dark any longer. He also told CJ in so few words that yes, Zayn would be in soon, but that Zayn needed rest first. Zayn nods dumbly, _I bet Ceej understood, I bet he loves you now, someone else trying to take care of me_. His eyes still try to scan more of the upside-down words sprawled across his table that Harry must not want him to see just yet.

And suddenly it bursts out of Zayn, before he can process anything else or wonder what the fuck CJ will have to say about Harry’s involvement. Or press the issue of _why are you reading up about me, please don’t._

“Will you just…” Zayn says gruffly, his voice low and scratchy, as he turns to Harry and stares at him. “Will you tell me what happened? What did I do? Did I do something awful in my sleep?”

Harry blinks at him. And then he turns away again, to shut off the burners and slide the food onto two plates. Zayn rubs at his throat, too frustrated for words and too sore to try another tactic, before falling into a chair. Harry moves all of the pages up and off the table, into a bigger pile, and snaps Zayn’s laptop shut. He settles with their food and gestures for Zayn to eat it before it gets cold, pours a cup of coffee for Zayn to grip, and still won’t say anything.

Zayn stares at him. _Was it really that bad?_

“Did I hurt you?” he pushes again, before he can take it back, leaning his forehead onto his palm. _You throw yourself into fires and it’s fucking burning in here. My whole life is in flames._ “Tell me. Please. Did I… touch you? Did I… you were afraid, you tried to move away from me. So did – did I scream at you or shout in gibberish, or…” he gestures to his own sore throat.

Harry sets his fork down and frowns. He must’ve wanted to wait to have the conversation, to discuss the revelations from last night and what their plan would be. Maybe he hoped Zayn would eat and then go into work first thing, so they both could have the day to think it all over. And Zayn’s just gone and ruined it. Harry smooths at the tshirt he’s wearing, the one Zayn got in Daytona Beach when he was nineteen that says “Good Times and Tan Lines” on the back.

Harry steadies his breathing, before grabbing for Zayn’s hand. To use himself as Zayn’s new anchor.

“Zayn, you didn’t hurt me,” he says. “I promise.”

“What did I do then?”

“Babe, you didn’t hurt _me_ ,” Harry says with a concerned frown, his chin tilted down like he needs the words to sink in.

But the words don’t sink in. They don’t permeate at first, because they don’t make sense. Zayn shrugs a bit and gestures to his throat, to the vocal damage he at least caused while unconscious. Like something had to have happened. Harry shakes his head to get Zayn to understand, to follow along.

“I woke up again, as you were whimpering in your sleep,” Harry says, his face blank and passive. “You started to mumble, I couldn’t make the words out. But you were so scared, babe. You were terrified, your hands were in fists like you needed to fight back against someone.”

Zayn blinks.

“Then you started to thrash and scream. Your whole body went wild, you screamed bloody murder, about Jesse, about a knife. You even yelled ‘please stop’ and ‘take me too,’” Harry says, his eyes finally going wide at the memory, at the fact that Zayn dreamt about that fateful night.

But that’s not the dream Zayn remembers. He frowns, eyes darting to the floor, wracking his brain. Jesse wasn’t in his dream. He dreamt of Harry, of them in bed. Using his hands to hurt Harry, to laugh in his face, to make it quick. It didn’t add up, Jesse wasn’t there, only Harry was, Zayn is sure of it.

He’s pulled out of his thoughts when Harry brings Zayn’s hand up to his lips. He rests his mouth against Zayn’s fingers, eyes locked on Zayn’s, like he wants nothing more than to open up his skull and take a look around. To look at Zayn’s brain up close and see the parts where it’s broken, damaged, too far gone.

“That wasn’t my dream,” Zayn says in his cracked, husky voice. He doesn’t like the way Harry is looking at him. “I dreamt something different.”

“You wouldn’t stop,” Harry counters, eyes sad. “You started to hit yourself in the head, you put a hand around your own throat to choke yourself. And I had to wake you up, I just had to. So I yelled out your name over and over until you opened your eyes. And you still looked so scared. That scared _me_ and I didn’t know what to do.”

_And then you kept me calm and soothed me like my fucking mother used to and kissed my eyelids so I’d close them. You made me feel better. And I slept again for another two hours. And you made me breakfast._

For some reason Zayn wants to pull his hand back. It’s odd because he’s wanted to touch Harry pretty regularly since the first morning on his front steps, when Harry showed up with coffee. He wanted to touch Harry all the time, be touched by Harry, do what they did the night before. If they were a normal couple, and this was a normal morning after, they’d be kissing, reminiscing about their first time. And then forgetting breakfast to instead have sex on the table.

But that’s not them, it’ll never be them, and he really wants to pull his hand back. It’s like something inside him wants to run, to flee, like the impending doom he felt when he woke up, with a flash of silver, has somehow found them. It feels like something is about to be said that can’t be unsaid, something that could tip Zayn’s entire world upside down, and he’s had enough of that to last a lifetime.

It just doesn’t make sense. His paranoia creeps up on him like a thief in the night, over his shoulder, smirking. Harry heard him say strange things, as he relived that night, screamed at Jesse’s killer as he committed the crime Zayn never actually witnessed. _I found his body, that’s all. I saw Tim run away, but that was it._

Zayn blinks and continues to stare at the floor. Harry heard him call out for Jesse, to save him, to sacrifice himself… but he doesn’t remember Jesse being in his head at all.

He remembers choking Harry in the dream. That’s it. He then woke up from it, sweating and terrified of his own hands. He panicked at what he could’ve done to Harry. He vaguely remembers falling back asleep a short time later, once his breathing leveled out, and Harry took a turn running his fingers through Zayn’s hair instead.

It doesn’t make sense.

And if his brain is playing tricks on him, if the universe wants to throw another curve ball, Zayn won’t make it this time. He won’t.

Harry kisses the first knuckle of Zayn’s pointer finger, and says, “I made sure you were really out again, and when I saw your hands curl up into fists, I had you grab onto my shirt. Something to hold onto instead.”

_Instead of my own fucking neck. Not yours, but mine._

Zayn swallows the lump in his throat, how his hands knew in his sleep to squeeze and hurt and apply pressure. How he must’ve tried to hurt himself, in some dream he can’t remember even having.

“It really scared me,” Harry says quietly as he sets Zayn’s hand down to instead go for the papers he printed. “And I just… I needed to think and clear my head. It’s just – a lot… Destiny dying, my whole life up in the air, worrying about… you. About the man following… us. So I left for a bit to get you some food. Don’t be mad.”

“I’m not,” Zayn mumbles to the tiles in his kitchen. _Destiny is all we think about. Destiny and each other. At least you had a little break._

Zayn frowns then, because now he gets it. Harry, in his confusion and fear, set out to forget. To problem solve. Get food, get informed, and not be scared to the point of standing still. Harry, who can compartmentalize to the point of lighting up a stage just a day after his roommate’s murder, needs this. Zayn sees the papers in Harry’s hands, his words about Zayn. And his earlier suspicions are confirmed; he can see exactly where this is going. It’s all right there, the same thing his parents tried and every therapist since. He’s never told anyone else about Jesse before, and now it’s going to bite him in the ass.

Flashes of the dream, of Harry’s neck, and then the dream he doesn’t remember, of Jesse fighting Tim off. It’s like they start to intermix in his head, so he shakes it and reads what Harry printed. The papers are as he expected: one with Web MD at the top, others with ‘Psych 101’ and ‘What Long-Term Lack of Sleep Does to the Human Brain.’

Zayn needs to go to the station. He knows it’s a distraction for Harry, something Harry can _do_ since he must feel so powerless. It seems they both love a good distraction. But Zayn can’t. He has a job to do. So before Harry opens his mouth, Zayn holds up a hand and gets up from the table.

“Please don’t do this,” he croaks. “Please don’t psycho-analyze me, Harry. Doctors have tried this shit for years and it never works. I can’t… I don’t have time for this. I need to get ready and go see Ceej. We have to work on the case, I have to work, I need – ”

Harry shakes his head and stands up to meet him eye to eye.

“Zayn, stop. Don’t be mad at me,” he levels him, hands full of paper. “I’m not trying to do anything other than see what we can do about your sleep.”

“We?”

“Yes, we.”

“I _asked_ you if you thought I was crazy and you said no.”

“I _don’t_ think you’re crazy,” Harry guffaws. “I told you I don’t think you’re crazy. I do think your sleep pattern is fucked up, though. It’s not okay, the dreams you have, the lucidity of them, the way you lash out. And now you can’t remember even having them? That’s not okay.”

_Lucidity. Jesus Christ._

“It was just this one time, it won’t happen again,” Zayn tries to say loudly, turning to head to his bedroom. Even he doesn’t believe it, so he hides his face. He repeats himself, moves down the hall. But his voice is still so hoarse, so fucked up from his screaming, it doesn’t hold much weight.

Harry follows close behind, the papers crinkling in his hands.

“No, this is the second time now,” he says with a sure, set voice. “This is the second time I’ve had to wake you up with either a slap to the face, or by screaming at you to come back. And you have to tell me things now, remember? It’s not just _you_ in this, we’re _both_ being watched.”

Zayn feels those words like a punch to his kidneys. He almost keels over, as he stops at his closet to rifle through his clothes to find something, anything suitable to wear. He wants to grab for his specially made rain boots, the ones he likes to have in the field. He thinks he hears a faint drizzle from the other side of his bedroom window, and he can sense the day, he’s good at that and pays attention to detail. He hears rain and he wants his fucking boots. _I’m a good cop and I have special boots._

But it’s like his synapses can’t fire correctly, because it’s all just blank. His brain won’t even process his surroundings. It’s like the closet isn’t even there, his eyes playing tricks on him just like his mind. It’s like everything betrays him at once, a different kind of shut down. Like all five senses won’t ever work correctly again. He just stands there and tries to blink, hyperventilating, but it’s like he’s staring into an empty black hole, nothing, just space. The void.

He puts a hand to his forehead, dizzy again.

It’s not a panic attack, but it’s close.

Harry senses it, he drops the papers entirely, and steps behind Zayn to hold him tightly around the middle.

“Please don’t be pissed,” he says gently, his voice calm and quiet. He rests his forehead on Zayn’s shoulder. Like he’s as exhausted as Zayn. _We’re both so fucked, babe. We can’t even stand up right now. I’m mad at you and yet I still want to crawl back into bed, get us naked again, touch and feel and then sleep._

Zayn doesn’t respond, so Harry continues.

“It’s just… sleep deprivation, true insomnia, fucks with you. It starts to distort your brain, your thoughts, all of it. I’m worried about you. I’m worried you’re going to snap and it’s all gonna crash.”

Zayn hangs his head. He counts to ten, tries to repeat his mother’s name like he used to when he panicked at fourteen. Then he repeats the other name that makes him calm. _Harry Harry Harry Harry._

Harry gently kisses his shoulder a few times, to give him the time to collect himself. He whispers he’s sorry. That they’re okay. _You’re so good like that. How do you do it?_ But he has to try one more time, to get away from that babying feeling CJ tries to lay on thick. The one thing that Zayn cannot handle.

“Can’t we just say that this… this is how I am?” Zayn whispers desperately, his voice as wispy as smoke. “That I found my best friend’s body when I was a kid and that fucks a person up? Probably forever, right? I’m not going to change, or ‘get better.’ There’s nothing to get better from. And yeah, maybe I can’t remember the dream, which is strange, but can’t we just… accept it?”

_Wouldn’t it be so nice to just forget all of this? To pretend like I’m okay? That my friend didn’t die and your roommate didn’t die and all we have to look forward to today is fucking three more times before dinner?_

Like he can read Zayn’s mind, Harry shakes his head back and forth on Zayn’s shoulder.

“No,” he says simply. “We can’t accept it. Because you said you refuse to find my body. You refuse to let me die, right? Well I refuse to let _you_ die, to let you waste away into nothing because you can’t sleep, or you’re scared, or try to hurt yourself when you close your eyes for too long.”

Zayn exhales.

“I spend days thinking about myself,” Harry admits quietly. “I always have. I’m selfish. Days upon days, even as we got to know each other, thinking about me. About my lie, what a shitty person I was, how best to keep it from everyone. I had to lie to you, to the world, to make sure I didn’t look guilty. I only thought about me. And I don’t want to think about myself anymore. Or lie. And this… this is how I feel. This is what I need to do, to try and help.”

“You don’t have to do this, Harry.”

“Well this all sounds vaguely familiar,” Harry responds cheekily, his lips now on Zayn’s neck. His mouth curls into a smile, Zayn feels the press of his straight teeth against his skin. It has him shivering.

He can’t help but crack a small grin, at the memory of Harry saying essentially the same thing while at the dinner table the other night _: I don’t need to be saved. You don’t need to worry about me. You don’t need to keep me locked up here._

“You’re really not going to let this go, are you?” Zayn wonders morosely, fingers finally reaching out to feel around in his closet for a pair of pants or a belt. He really does need to go to the station, lack of sleep or not. “Can I tell _you_ this time, that I think _you’re_ the dramatic one?”

“No.”

Zayn turns around, winding a tie around his fingers, and kisses Harry on the mouth. His lip doesn’t hurt as bad, but he’s still grateful that Harry tries to be mindful of it. He doesn’t bite.

“Can I go in now?” Zayn croaks. “And when I get back later, you can tell me some of the things you’ve been reading. And I’ll promise not to be pissed about it.”

“Because you trust me, right?” Harry asks with a serious expression, the question loaded like a pistol. _You said you trust me now, Zayn, that I’m not a suspect, I’m not a liar or a fake. You said we were okay, that we were doing this. Tell me you trust me._

Zayn kisses the highest point of Harry’s cheekbone and nods reassuringly. “Course I do.”

"Good."

Zayn holds up his tie and wrinkles his nose. He doesn’t much feel like dressing up as a detective today, not when he feels so out of place and out of sorts. It feels like a uniform he can’t really fake these days. Harry understands because he takes the tie and throws it back into the closet and instead grabs for a simple tshirt.

“Thank you, babe,” Harry says quietly, now that he knows Zayn isn’t mad. That he really does trust the process.

Zayn feels his cheeks redden as he looks down to watch himself grab Harry by the hip. It’s stupid, to feel this way when Harry essentially wants to cut his brain open and see what’s going on in there. He should hate it and say absolutely not, since it won’t work and he can’t even think about the ripple effect of what that could do.

But he doesn’t say any of that, because Harry kisses his neck again and whispers another thank you.

So Zayn sighs and says, “No, thank you.”

 

\---

 

_March 26, 2019  
9:29 am _

Marcy Klein used to hang up so many pictures of her children, she quite literally ran out of room on her walls to display them all. She covered the walls quickly, and moved on to black frames on little end tables in the living room and a collage that covered the fridge from top to bottom. She would even tuck pictures under the visors in their van, to display her smiling children, their friends, and the random stray pets they brought home almost every other week.

Sometimes when Marcy printed too many at once, she’d hand them out at soccer practices and t-ball games. To the parents of her kids’ friends, if their own kids were featured in her pictures, she’d offer them up like paper money. Zayn remembers the glint of her blue nail polish as she’d fan the pictures out like she was in the middle of a poker game, her jovial face hidden behind them, as she asked the parents if they’d like to see.

Zayn’s mother always accepted them. Even with her apprehension when it came to the “dirty, unsafe” Klein house, she always really liked Marcy. So Zayn eventually got used to seeing his face, alongside the five Klein kids, tacked up around his own house. It wasn’t as cluttered, the pictures weren’t featured as prominently as at Kleins, but they were there: little frames, two pictures on the fridge, one specific wall that showed him growing up. His mother refused to have stray pictures in her Audi’s visors, though.

There was one picture from a baseball game. It featured the two best friends in their blue and white uniforms, Jesse with an arm slung around Zayn’s shoulders, his other hand slapping at Zayn’s stomach. Zayn had his face tucked down to his chest, embarrassed as usual whenever Jesse touched him. But Jesse smiled at the camera, his face wide and open, his eyes so happy it was like he had just seen his first Christmas morning haul.

It was Zayn’s favorite picture of the two of them, even though he can’t remember now where it was officially placed in their house. Fridge? Zayn’s bedroom? A frame near the front door? After Jesse died, after the Kleins moved out of their house and as far away from Omaha as they could get, Zayn’s mom packed that picture and all the others with Jesse away somewhere. She didn’t want to “upset” Zayn. There was probably a whole box of them in the attic. Or maybe that one specific picture that Zayn loved so much, maybe it was special and Trisha kept it under her mattress or tucked between the pages of a book. Nice and safe. Zayn should ask about it.

He doesn’t think about Jesse’s face often, in the sense that he could visualize it in his everyday surroundings like Jesse should be there. But for some reason as he stands in line to get coffee and cigarettes at the 7-Eleven near the station, he can see Jesse in front of him plain as day.

It’s like he’s the young kid working behind the counter. Maybe he would’ve spiked his hair up like this boy, maybe he would’ve pierced his ear too. Maybe Jesse would’ve skipped college to do this: stay near home, help out his family as his siblings had kids, paid the bills so his dad wouldn’t have to anymore. It sounds like something Jesse would do, even if he’d never admit it out loud. He never liked to brag about the nice things he did, just the bratty and menacing ones.

Zayn steps closer with his steaming coffee as another person finishes their transaction, and he feels his body start to curl up. It can’t be good to think about Jesse or his stolen future this tangibly right now, especially after what Harry said about the things he screamed out in his sleep.

_Harry Harry Harry Harry._

If Zayn had his way, he’d have Harry under lock and key inside the duplex for the duration of the case. He’d have a uniform stationed right outside the front door, for anyone passing by to see, and recognize the significance of a strapped cop in their midst. _Don’t fuck with this house, not now, not today._ There wouldn’t be any more flowers or cryptic notes left on Zayn’s steps or inside on the table, because he’d ask Officer Eastman to be on watch. East is a fucking Big Foot of a man, so tall and broad that Zayn used to imagine dating him and how fucked up his neck would get from always have to kiss him ninety degrees up.

But as Harry reminded him in so few words an hour ago, as they said goodbye out in the alley next to Zayn’s car without any roses or map pieces in sight, no good can come from Harry being trapped inside like a sitting duck. Harry had a life to lead, a band meeting and rehearsal, for the big show they have tomorrow night. Apparently a band from Denver was coming in for the weekend and Harry’s band was asked to open the first show. Triple their usual crowd, a new audience to play for, and more money than Harry has ever made singing. So they both waved to Lexi as she got into her own car, her face awkward and tight, and parted for the foreseeable future.

They did both promise to answer their phones, if the other wanted to call and check in. Which Zayn considers a win.

The line moves again and Zayn’s hand twitches for a cigarette or four. He needs to hurry. CJ is getting restless, his phone vibrates yet again. They have so much shit to do to, so much to talk about. The man with the light brown hair and cold eyes, who stared at Zayn across a room like he could kill him with just a look. The kind of man who _could_ kill him, if he really wanted to.

Just then, someone knocks into Zayn. A shoulder thrown into his shoulder, jostling him forward towards the counter full of gum and Bic lighters. He reaches a hand out, to steady himself and not fall into the little old lady giving him her own kind of death stare. Zayn starts to breathe deeper, his fist against his forehead. _Is it time? Here? With all these witnesses?_ He has to act like a fucking cop, be strong. So fast as anything, he spins around, that same hand diving for the gun under his leather jacket.

But it’s not the man with the pointed teeth, it’s not a man at all.

Because this is real life, not some fucking crime drama with a slinking outsider hiding around every corner. He might be following Zayn, but he’s not doing it all the time, clearly. The place is clear of the stranger; it’s just a few teenage boys browsing, a man with a dog in his arms, an especially rushed girl trying to hurry out to her friends.

“Sorry,” says the girl in long pigtails and hoop earrings, the one who knocked into him. She chomps her gum, holds up the can of Red Bull she had come in for, and gestures to the man behind the counter. She gives Zayn a little smile, like she knows Zayn knows how hot he is, and tosses a five down. She runs out to her little group in their little Honda Civic, gives Zayn a flirty wave from the sunroof, and that’s that.

Zayn really doesn’t enjoy getting attention from teenage girls and he especially doesn’t enjoy reaching for his gun around a handful of civilians. The young man behind the counter stares at him with wide eyes, like he could sense what Zayn was about to do when knocked into. Like he’s some loose canon, a random Muslim dude with messy hair and too-long facial hair, ready to shoot someone in the fucking face for making him slosh his coffee up onto his wrist. It stinks of having that racial layer, the brown man with no impulse control, which is so fucked up and so sad, Zayn absolutely cannot dedicate any head space to it.

So he reaches under his tshirt and pulls out his badge on the chain. Lays it flat against his chest, looks the clerk in the eyes, and gestures towards the cigarettes over head.

Two minutes later, he lights the first one in his car. He inhales and exhales the smoke four times before actually starting the engine. He has to go. He can’t keep putting it off any longer. He needs to remember the gumption and fortitude from the night before, when he joyously texted CJ from the bar, how he was certain they’d find the guy now. He needs to remember that feeling, instead of the one from this morning after the phantom dream he can’t remember.

If his sleep deprivation has finally caught up with him and has started to mold his mind into something he can’t handle, well… he’ll just have to focus elsewhere.

Destiny May Houthakker.

Dead and gone, the wrong place at the wrong time, all because of Zayn Malik and his shitty decisions. Jesse flicks him in the forehead, _get a fucking move on, open your eyes._

So Zayn starts the car and does.

 

\---

 

_March 26, 2019  
10:40 am _

“So what’s this, then?” says Officer Osborne, as he sidles up to Zayn’s desk flanked by Persiani and Wells. “Looks like the world’s most annoying jigsaw puzzle.”

With bloodshot eyes and zero patience, Zayn looks up from the map pieces on his desk and locks eyes with Osborne, one of the biggest pricks in the department. Apparently he’s distantly related to Coach Tom Osborne himself, who is practically a _god_ in Nebraska, and that’s how he bought his way onto the reserve team in college. He has that classic rich kid air of entitlement and tactless communication skills; he puts most other idiot officers to shame. Zayn blinks at the smirk on his face. Because if Osborne thinks he’s some sort of god or even a decently skilled police officer, surely he’s the only one.

Zayn had been staring at the map pieces since he arrived, as CJ talked his ear off. He had awoken from a deep sleep at around four in the morning and read Zayn’s text messages from the night before. And since he’s a better and more efficient detective in every single way, CJ was up and at it immediately. He already had their daily plan set in place before he even stepped foot into the station.

Since Zayn hadn’t said the exact bar he was in when the stranger approached, CJ did his research on Harry’s band’s website, specifically their performance schedule. He located the bar and had already contacted the owner for security tapes. He has another junior detective working with the bank for the night’s credit card transactions, has a call out to both bartenders to question them, and still had time to brew and present Zayn the coffee he likes before anyone else could snag it.

_Overachiever._

_But it’s my fault for not giving you more detail, before I fucked the guy currently in my house and forgot about you until late this morning._

_I should say sorry._

Zayn realizes he had started to zone out somewhat, his eyes slightly crossed like when he’s especially wrung out and exhausted. Osborne tries to crane his neck and see more of the map, of what the hell Malik and Lowell keep spending their time on. He even pokes at one of the pieces, sees the Sharpie stains that bled through from the notes and heart drawings on the other side.

Zayn should snatch it away and tell him to mind his own business, but he doesn’t have the energy.

“Work,” he says instead, with a slow nod of the head.

“Yeah, what work? A case?” Osborne smiles as he crosses his arms. He legitimately thinks he has clout, that even as a fucking beat cop, he can ask questions and tell a lead detective what to do. It’s almost hilarious.

“Yes.”

“Is that still your dead hooker? The girl from South O?”

Zayn’s jaw twitches. _Of course it is. I can’t work on anything else, I haven’t even been assigned anything in a week._

_She wasn’t a hooker._

_And even if she was, show a little respect, asshole._

He’s about to stand up and really get this thing going, shove at Osborne a bit, make a scene if he has to. He doesn’t give a shit if the other two uniforms are there to witness it either. Wells is new, she won’t tell; and Persiani is a moron who accidentally fired his weapon through the roof of his cruiser six months back.

But CJ stops him before he can, presses a hand to Zayn’s shoulder to keep him seated. Surprisingly, he uses his seniority to tell the three to “fuck off” and go do their jobs. He impresses upon them his old Zayn standby, which is essentially, “I know you have reports to fill out, so why don’t you get the fuck to it?”

Zayn can’t help but smile. It’s impressive, since CJ’s never the hard ass detective spouting curse words. That’s usually Zayn’s job, with CJ standing behind him whispering to shut up before they get in trouble.

“Thanks,” Zayn says quietly as the three officers move away with abashed expressions. They both know he means for the interaction and for everything CJ has already done that morning to get the investigation going.

“All good,” CJ shrugs as he perches on the edge of Zayn’s desk. His cheeks pink up slightly at the silent compliment, because of course they do. “How’s Harry? Taking it well?”

It’s Zayn’s turn for his cheeks to pink up, at the unintended sexual innuendo. But he swiftly ignores it, since that would be highly inappropriate to snicker, and not at all information he wants CJ to have about his sex life.

“He’s okay,” Zayn says instead, moving around in his chair to lean back and face the open pit. Busy and bustling. A fresh spring always sends people a little wonky: more shootings, more assaults, way more DUIs. So it’s phones ringing off the hook, a robbery suspect screaming over near booking, that he’s “innocent, you fucking pigs.” Zayn remembers Harry being walked past booking, so he shakes his head and continues. “He definitely freaked out at first. But then… I don’t know, he settled with it. I have a feeling after everything that’s happened with Destiny, Harry’s almost used to getting bad news. He doesn’t even blink anymore.”

CJ nods.

“This whole thing is insane.”

“It is,” Zayn agrees. “And I’m just – I’m worried more roses are going to show up, somewhere Harry is, for him to find.”

“You think?”

Zayn nods down towards the map pieces. He’s been thinking about it ever since he sat down at his desk, when CJ placed Destiny’s file into his hands because he knew Zayn would want to delve into it, even the things they already knew.

There are five torn up pieces. He moves them into place, to line up the various ripped edges: the first piece from Destiny’s locker at the club; the piece delivered to Zayn with the first bouquet of roses; the two pieces that were delivered together for both Zayn and Harry; and the last piece left for just Zayn, inside his own goddamn house.

They had five pieces. Three of them feature mostly the Omaha metro; the other two dip into Iowa, show the winding Missouri River. But there is clearly one more piece missing. It’s the piece that connects the farthest eastern part of Nebraska to the outskirts of Council Bluffs. Whoever took a map and tore it into pieces has at least one more to send them. One more piece and it really will complete the world’s most annoying jigsaw puzzle.

Zayn and CJ both recognize it. There’s another piece coming. They don’t know when or how, but it has to be on its way. The man stalking Zayn has kept everything so planned and coordinated within the last week, he won’t make them wait three months for another bouquet and note. It’s coming. Soon.

And Zayn would bet money on it getting to Harry Styles before it ever gets to him.

_Harry Harry Harry Harry._

_Nice and safe, nice and safe, nice and safe._

Zayn had thought it earlier in the morning, to keep an officer stationed outside of his house, and it nags at him now. Maybe he really should. Maybe he should put a tail on Harry, someone Zayn can radio at any given time of day and ask if Harry is okay. If he could have eyes on Harry, it would definitely give him true peace of mind.

He looks up at CJ and knows CJ knows where his head’s at. He frowns. They really can’t put an officer on Harry without both explicit permission and admission as to why it’s necessary. And at CJ’s insistence, they _still_ haven’t told any of this to their Captain.

One more piece of the map. One more. What it means or what it will reveal when it does show up, they’re still not sure. The man didn’t indicate any mile markers, places within the city, or routes to lead the detectives somewhere specific. So far the map is mostly just blank on one side, the city streets Omaha where they wander, with drawn hearts and notes on the other side. It still has revealed _nothing_.

The last piece. The literal last piece of the puzzle, must reveal something big.

“One more,” Zayn mumbles. “We have one more to find.”

“And you think it’s going to Harry?”

“I think…” Zayn chooses his words carefully, “that whoever this guy is, he has to know how important Harry is. Now. To me. And that might really piss him off.”

_I get it, that this is all meant to torture me. And what do I do? I get a fucking boyfriend for the first time in my adult life. I kissed him in front of a bar and the guy almost knocked me the fuck over for it._

CJ frowns again, at the implication of the man being pissed off enough to hurt someone close to Zayn. Zayn sees the flicker of concern there, not just for the entire situation, but also for his own safety. CJ’s as close to Zayn as anyone. What if he’s next?

Zayn resolutely does not consider the thought. He won’t find Harry’s body and he absolutely won’t find CJ’s. But he does notice the twitch to Ceej’s face and the hand tucked in his belt next to his gun.

CJ shrugs, like he can’t decided what else to say. Like maybe Zayn’s statement is what it is, and maybe it’s absolutely correct. There’s nothing more to worry about. He asks when Harry will be done with his day, when Zayn can see him again, and they agree that as soon as Harry’s rehearsal is done, Zayn will go home. He’ll take Harry home and keep him inside. He can work from the safety of his dead-bolted living room, with his email and texts open to go over it all with his partner.

“Thanks Ceej,” Zayn says as they settle on the plan, ruffling CJ’s hair. “Best partner ever.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. I know.”

CJ’s cheeks pink up again. He reaches for Destiny’s file and they both get back to work, choosing to ignore the pile of past cases of Zayn’s. The guy showed his face and it’s time to fucking find him. They have calls to make, bartenders to go interview, and a case to finally fucking solve.

 

\---

 

_March 26, 2019  
4:04 pm _

Zayn hits his forehead on his desk, progressively harder each time, as he tries to hang up the phone. If he really thought about all the ways he’s tried to physically harm himself in the last few days, he might have to call his father and admit that he needs to be admitted to a psych ward after all. He swore for years that he was fine, and now look at him. He’s exhausted beyond recognition, with bags under his eyes, a split lip and a stalker.

_Winning, clearly._

He thunks his head on the desk a final time, even winces at the pain, right as Mrs. Fielder launches into another theory about why her son Quinn was killed.

“I know he had a girlfriend, Detective,” she repeats herself for the seventh time. _Senile. Losing her marbles._ “He had a girl over on Poppleton, he did. Italian, worked at her grandpa’s restaurant. You know that restaurant, Detective? The one only open for lunch?”

_Sons of Italy. It’s fucking good. Classic. But it doesn’t help me much._

“Yes ma’am, I know the place.”

“Get their sausage, Detective. Best in town.”

“Thank you. Next time I’ll be sure to do that,” Zayn says amicably, hiding his yawn behind his hand.

CJ was still stationed at Richard’s Pub over in Benson, interviewing one of the bartenders from the night before. The young guy was working his other job, needed CJ to come to him, which CJ practically jumped at. It’s like the more time he spends inside the station, cooped up around the all-knowing eyes of their colleagues judging them for not solving their one and only case, the more CJ had to get away.

So Zayn let him go, to report back. Since they have so much more info to find about the night before, he got to work on the Questionable and Unsolved files. He spent the last few hours picking cases at random from the piles, to sift through and pull phone numbers of people he could call. He made sure to flip through the file’s photographs first, to see if the stranger was in there somewhere. Since the guy had shown his face and Zayn knew who to look for now, he focused on the cases where the vics were males, vics with a close male friend, sibling or father, or anyone who had died because of a close male friend, sibling or father.

Picture after picture, searching, _where are you, you fucking bastard, I know I recognize you, I just have to remember from where._

The Fielder case didn’t reveal any strange, short, white assholes; there wasn’t a man within the case photos that Zayn had ever interviewed or met that matched the face taunting him.

But he indulges the mother anyways. Maybe if she heard Zayn’s voice and saw that he had never forgotten her son, she’d feel a bit better.

Quinn Fielder had been shot in the chest twice, from close range, in his backyard in Midtown. It was pretty open and shut: his brother had come home to see him stacking money into two piles out on the deck. Fielder was a known gambler and had borrowed money from both his brother and sister. According to a witness in an attic next door, an argument ensued and the brother shot Fielder twice. He fled the scene, but Zayn had tracked him down to a woman’s house way out on West Maple, almost to Elkhorn. The brother never confessed, he swore it was someone else that had been pissed about the gambling. But the evidence was there: a pistol in his car, a shell casing near the body matched it, and the witness.

_Sentenced for twenty-five-to-life._

Their mother couldn’t handle it though, and always swore that her youngest son could not have killed her other son. So she had hounded Zayn for weeks and weeks after the initial arrest, to look elsewhere: Quinn’s friends, the girl he stayed with, a girlfriend no one could ever find or verify.

Zayn asked Mrs. Fielder if anything had changed, if she had any other leads or questions for him. He told her that he was “going through old files” and wanted to make sure she was “doing alright.”

But poor Mrs. Fielder didn’t remember much, her memory had started to fade. And as Zayn listened to her repeat herself, he stared once more at the photos in the file. Friends, the brother, anyone Zayn had questioned or come in contact with. He checked again, as Mrs. Fielder continued. None of the men in the photos matched the face of the stranger from the bar. Zayn knows now: it’s obvious that this was not the case that he fucked up enough for someone to want revenge. Martin Fielder was guilty, he shot his brother, and that’s the end of it.

This case was solved and Zayn did his job correctly.

A few minutes later, after he’s finally off the phone and stacked the _No_ cases on the other side of his desk, his cell rings. He had been so good about not bothering Harry all day, had only called and texted twice to check in, so as not to freak Harry out too much. It fucking sucked, having to censor himself and pretend like Harry was fine. It was probably one of the harder things Zayn’s ever had to do.

But to see Harry’s name flash on the screen suddenly has Zayn’s eyes crossed again, his entire body sagging while also surging with adrenaline to _hurry up, answer, find out where he is, what’s wrong._

“Where are you? What’s wrong?” he huffs, hand almost dropping the phone down into his lap.

“I’m fine, babe,” Harry says, amused like he’s fucking laughing at the situation. Which is ridiculous because he should be terrified.

“Where are you?”

“Your place.”

“Are you – did you go inside, or…” Zayn stumbles his words, at a loss for how Harry could’ve gotten in. He had checked the locks again to make sure no one could enter his house but him. 

“No, I’m sitting on the front steps. I thought I’d wait here for you.”

“Outside in the open?”

“Yes, Zayn,” Harry says, the eye roll almost audible across the line. “Please don’t be dramatic.”

“I’m not.”

“The rain stopped earlier and the sun is out. I’m kicked back, getting a little tan on my cheeks. I’m fine. I just wanted you to know I’m here, whenever you’re finished.”

Zayn can almost see it: Harry in his white jeans and horrible Hawaiian shirt, purposefully making himself sweat because he hadn’t worked out that morning. And he likes to break a sweat at least once a day.

“I’m done,” Zayn lies, packing up a few files to go over that night. He really should stay until Ceej is back, should stay all fucking night until they’re done, but… now he can’t.

“Don’t rush.”

“No, I’m – We’re almost done, so I thought I’d come home and we have dinner or something.”

Harry stretches, makes a content noise like he’s fallen onto his back to stretch his arms and raise his shirt up to tan his stomach. Despite himself, Zayn feels his dick twitch in his boxers.

“Let’s make it together,” Harry says with a sigh, like he could take a fucking nap out in the open, on Zayn’s front steps, with anyone to see or attack him or try to weasel their way into Harry’s world.

“Okay.”

“Be safe,” Harry says, which is also ridiculous because that’s Zayn’s line.

“You too,” Zayn mumbles as they hang up.

He takes a moment to assess where his hands are placed: in his bag, shuffling file folders, reaching for his keys. He blinks. He hadn’t realized his arms now have a mind of their own. He doesn’t remember telling his body to move that way.

But whatever, he shakes his head. At least the movements mean he can get home faster.

It goes against everything Zayn should do. He should stay and work on this case. He should prop up Destiny’s photo next to his computer and make sure her eyes were on him at all times. To not forget why he had to solve it, to give her the justice she deserved. He should call her mother again, to give her reassurance.

He should wait for CJ to get back, to go over the two statements from the bartenders. The bank should have the credit card transactions sent over soon, so there’s that. It’s something to look forward to, since the security tapes came up blank. Apparently the bar’s system was “old” and must not have been working right, the screen just showing white nothing. It made Zayn’s face twitch, his entire body engaged in its anger, but he’s trying to get past it. He’s trying not to dwell on the fact that he could’ve had a fucking video of the stranger, but instead only has his own shoddy memory. He’s working on it.

Zayn should sit with a sketch artist before he loses the details. He should close his eyes and commit that fucker’s face to memory for real, since he doesn’t trust his own brain anymore. He should also pinpoint the section of the map that the missing piece holds, see what pops into his head for that area, go explore it if he had to. It’s clearly a place he’s supposed to know or understand; maybe he should walk around that neighborhood. He should be out in the field, poking around in the Klein house just because, envelope himself in the case from all angles.

He should input more of his notes, should scan the most recent map piece in, should stay there at his fucking desk to at least pretend to be useful.

But then he remembers Harry, the target perched at Zayn’s front door for anyone to see, and he’s done for. It’s like he can practically see it in his mind’s eye: Harry with a red dot in the center of his chest, a far off man intent to hurt him, to hurt Zayn, and taunt the entire neighborhood with his insides splattered all over Zayn’s front door.

Zayn shudders. He sends a quick text to CJ, to call him when he’s back at the station. Because even though it’s early, and there’s so much to be done, Zayn has one errand to run.

And he then he has to go home.

 

\---

  
March 26, 2019  
5:17 pm

There he is, just as Zayn imagined: on his back right outside the front door, face tilted towards the sky, his shirt rucked up under his armpits to get some sun on his stomach and chest. He has his arms wide, his phone perched on his Adam’s apple.

Zayn approaches quietly, almost positive that Harry fell asleep and is currently giving himself a rather nasty sunburn. He can’t help but smile, even in the midst of feeling like he has eyes on his back, at how ridiculous Harry is. He also thinks about the first time Harry showed up on these stairs, with amazing coffee in one hand and words like _you look stressed, relax,_ and _I don’t have anywhere else to go._ It all started on these steps, everything they are now, the place they both can feel at home.

A wave of relief washes over Zayn, at how Harry has a place to go. A place to call home base, for now. Headquarters. Even if there’s a psycho running around trying to put Zayn’s head on a plate, at least Harry can come here to a home with locked doors and covered windows. It bodes well for what Zayn’s about to give. What he’s about to offer.

Somewhere, Jesse snorts at how fucking idiotic and sappy Zayn sounds.

“You’re creeping me out,” comes Harry’s voice from the stairs, right as Zayn settles at the base of them and props a foot up next to Harry’s thigh.

“Can’t a guy look?”

“You ‘looked’ for about two minutes too long,” Harry smiles up at the sun, eyes still closed tight. “Creep.”

Zayn chuckles and moves up to sit next to Harry’s head at the top of the stairs. Zayn’s back would’ve been fucked from the stairs digging into it, but Harry looks so relaxed, it must not bother him at all. That, or he has a high pain tolerance.

Harry finally cracks an eye open and smiles up at Zayn, like they haven’t seen each other in days. He moves up, groans a bit since his back must be fucked after all, so they can sit side by side. Zayn takes that as his cue to slide their hands together, to intertwine their fingers, and let out the breath he’s probably been holding since that morning when they said goodbye next to his car. He holds Harry with his other arm, keeps him close, nice and safe, the smell of his own soap enveloping them both.

“You good?” he asks with his mouth on Harry’s jaw.

“I’m good. All good here, no worries,” Harry says with a smile and a nod. “Our rehearsal was sick, it went so well. I’m just so excited.”

Zayn smiles at him in return and places a proper kiss at Harry’s temple. It’s hot to the touch, his healing lip almost recoils from it. But then he does it again and again, ignores the sting, and makes sure Harry can feel him wanting to be as close as possible.

“Missed you today,” Harry responds to the gesture. He pulls their hands up to his mouth and kisses Zayn’s knuckles, like he did early that morning when he dropped the bomb about the dream and his research.

Zayn doesn’t respond to the sentiment, since he likes to think his intentions are rather clear. He grips Harry’s hand tight, kisses his chin, and pulls tighter at his shoulder.

“I brought you something,” Zayn says instead. He reaches into his pocket and holds the item out in his palm.

A key. A silver key that was cut from a Lowe’s, definitely not an ACE Hardware because it hurts too much to walk into those small stores that remind him of Jesse. He barely survived 7-Eleven.

It occurred to Zayn on his frenzied drive into the station that morning that Harry couldn’t exactly stay with him without his own way into the house. He tries to use his face to impress that upon Harry: _I want you here, I want you safe. Harry_ stares down at it in Zayn’s palm, at the most important present an adult can give another adult, when newly dating.

“My very own key.”

“If you want it.”

“Course I do,” Harry scoffs, reaching for it. “I like being able to come and go as I please.”

“Good,” Zayn says with a smile, kissing Harry’s face again. _Live here, stay here forever, don’t ever go._ He breathes, tries to keep himself from saying those words too soon. “I like knowing where you are, so… just let me know when you’re coming by, so I know. Or if I’m home, when I hear the key in the door, I won’t pull my gun.”

Harry stills at that, his body rigid in Zayn’s embrace. It’s a horrible, awful thing to say. Zayn knows that. And honestly, Harry should hate the fact that his boyfriend, or whatever Zayn is, can joke about pulling a gun on him if he shows up unannounced.

But that’s what they are now, those are the cards they’ve been dealt. And it’s another testament to Harry, how he still doesn’t run away, still doesn’t divert the subject to happy-go-lucky thoughts. He loosens. It’s like he actively tells his body to relax and be an anchor that isn’t taut and stressed, but instead relaxed and peaceful. He turns so that he’s face to face with Zayn and nods.

“Promise, babe. I’ll let you know where I am, and if I’m about to use it,” he says as he holds up the key.

“Thank you,” Zayn sighs, knocking their heads together as he shuts his eyes. He could take a nap right then and there. He could sleep for fourteen hours, he thinks. Or maybe four. Hell, maybe one. But even that would be a relief after the exhausting few days they’ve had.

He dozes a bit, and barely catches Harry’s words.

“No, thank you.”

 

\---

 

_March 26, 2019  
7:29 pm_

It’s started to rain again. Big, fat droplets pelt the windows of Zayn’s little condo, thumping on the roof of his car out front, making the trees sound like they’re about to fall over from the continuous gusts of wind. Zayn peeks an eye through the front curtains, to make sure the block looks calm even in the middle of a rainstorm. No insane men in his front yard staring at him, no weird cars driving past without a destination, no one at all. All of the neighbors, who are usually out this time of night as the sun begins to stay out longer, are just as cooped up as Zayn and Harry.

There aren’t flutters to any curtains, no dogs barking, no one out for a stroll in rain boots and or a yellow rain coat. It’s just dark, empty, the thunder rolling in a few minutes apart. To some it might look and feel eerie outside; to Zayn, it’s a welcome change from the near constant movement a street in the throes of spring. It helps him think.

When he turns away from the window to look into the kitchen, he’s overcome with a strange feeling, one that he’s not at all used to. When he dated other people, Luke especially, it was like nights in together were strictly for lounging around watching movies, going to sleep early, or fucking around. With quick flings or friends-with-benefits, it was the same: they’d fuck around of course, and there was a girl who loved it when Zayn gave her back massages while she talked about her feelings. But for the most part, when it comes to Zayn and a “significant other” spending time together, it’s never been like this. He’s never let himself get like this: inviting someone so new to stay, giving away a key, dinner, making sure to put someone else’s shoes next to his near the door.

He can hear Harry in the kitchen, humming Billy Joel to himself as he stirs the rice and checks on the chicken. There’s a load of laundry going, with Zayn and Harry’s clothes intermixed, with the kind of laundry detergent Harry also loves and uses. He had said something like, _it’s very soothing, this “Spring Rain” kind, and I’m so glad we both use it._ There’s a candle burning near the lamp, Harry’s jeans slung over the armchair, and Zayn’s files stacked on the couch. Harry, still in the throes of his research, had the entire coffee table covered in papers and Zayn’s laptop.

The apartment suddenly feels very full. Alive.

There’s even a repeat “Jeopardy” episode coming from the small TV near the stove, which has Harry yelling out the wrong answers every few minutes. It makes Zayn smile every single time.

He takes one more glance out onto his street, (“What is… the Renaissance!” Harry bellows) and notes that the rain has finally blurred his sight just enough that he can’t make the street out. It’s all just black shapes. So he sighs and heads back to the couch.

The world is full of shapes, it’s raining, and Harry’s making dinner while he works from home.

It’s… new.

Since Harry has taken up the table space in the living room and the kitchen, Zayn’s been banished to the couch for his own work. He has another file open, this time for Allison Manero, the overdose from Kearney.

He checks his phone and reads through CJ’s various texts about how he’s going to spend another hour wrapping up at the station, compiling their bartender notes. Not much came of either interview, just the fact that both bartenders had seen a young guy matching the description that night. But he didn’t stay long, he didn’t drink much, and he paid with cash. That pretty much made the credit card receipts useless, as well.

According to Bartender 2, the stranger also barely had eyes for anyone other than Harry’s band. Them, or “that gorgeous guy who sometimes comes to watch at the bar with just a soda.”

Zayn should really start ordering a beer to blend in.

He is grateful yet again, to have CJ in his life and as a partner. CJ didn’t chastise him for leaving the station early, or freaking out over Harry being alone at his place. He knew Harry was important, that he too had been followed, and Zayn needed to keep him close. If Harry’s part of the case itself, Zayn needs to keep careful watch.

_I have to keep you safe and I can’t let you be alone out in the open. Thank god you took the key, maybe I’ll be able to sleep peacefully tonight knowing you have it. I want you here all the time, but I don’t know how else to say it._

“Can I show you something?” Harry says, drawing Zayn out of his head and away from Allison Manero’s cold, dead face staring up at him.

“Sure,” he responds, startled, his eyes so heavy he’s pretty sure the bags underneath them could fit an entire European vacation’s worth of shit.

Harry sits next to him on the couch and tucks his bare feet under Zayn’s thigh. He hands over a stack of papers from the kitchen, ones he had been reading over and highlighting as the food cooked. Zayn notes immediately that it all has to do with sleep deprivation. He silently reads to himself, the parts Harry felt needed to be preserved in bright yellow.

_Sleep deprivation wreaks havoc on the psyche. It’s not a far leap from insomnia to a psychotic break. Insomnia and its side effects affect perception. A vulnerable psyche can open up a person to delusions, hearing voices, imagining worst-case scenarios for every day activities. It can lead to isolation, depression, and severe anxiety. It’s also a major indication of repressed memories from childhood._

Zayn tilts his head and tries to read it without feeling a pit open up in his stomach. It’s like someone wrote a term paper on him specifically, “Zayn Malik and His No Good, No Sleep Life.” Sure, he lives a bit isolated. And of course he has severe anxiety, of course he can’t keep the dreams away. And he doesn’t have any repressed memories, because he relives his memories all the time, constantly, when he feels Jesse’s blood between his toes.

_I remember everything._

Jesse pinches Zayn’s ear and has him wincing from the pain, as if to say _you sure about that, Z? Really sure?_

Zayn’s good at ignoring Jesse when he wants to, so he does then. He focuses on the sleeping part of the article. If it weren’t completely true and accurate, how his lack of sleep leads him into crazed thoughts, Zayn might be pissed for having read it at all. He’s actively tried his entire life, ever since he stepped in Jesse’s blood, not to focus on the fact that he can’t sleep or function like a normal human being. Robot Zayn with his robot heart, who often feels like the full range of human emotion somehow evades him.

“Before you say anything,” Harry says, taking Zayn’s silence for anger, “I don’t think you’re psychotic or about to have a mental breakdown.”

“You don’t?” Zayn asks, surprised. _I do._

Harry frowns.

“No, I couldn’t think that about you.”

“I definitely can,” Zayn says with a slight shrug, handing the papers back to Harry. “I mean, I never sleep and I hear my dead best friend around me. It’s not that far off from how it is.”

Harry shakes his head and moves the papers to the table, careful of Zayn’s case file near his thigh. Zayn, having moved on from that morning’s anger towards complete ambivalence, shrugs again as Harry gapes at him.

“I don’t think you’re crazy and I believe you when you say you hear Jesse, I promise.”

“I know, babe. I appreciate it.”

“I just think,” Harry sighs, “that your sleep problems can make you feel worse. Or maybe… there’s more to your story that you haven’t fully realized yet.”

_It’s also a major indication of repressed memories from childhood._

“I remember everything,” Zayn says sharply, the first time that night or within the conversation. _I really remember it all, because it was awful and haunting and fucking insane to go through as a child. I remember everything._

“Okay,” Harry nods, unsure of if he should back off.

But Zayn reaches a hand up to rub at the hair around Harry’s neck, to say it’s okay. They can still talk about it, about the sleep. And underneath it all, he really is grateful for Harry and his need to do something in the midst of their chaos.

Harry must want to change his tactic, because he says, “I don’t want you to be anxious. Or think the worst is going to happen, that this stalker is going to find you or hunt you down. Hunt _me_ down.”

Zayn doesn’t know how to answer that without sounding completely Doom and Gloom, because that’s exactly what he thinks is going to happen at some point. So he moves into the kitchen to stir the chicken again. He needs to make sure the pieces don’t stick to the skillet, since Harry is now apparently too preoccupied with the inner workings of Zayn’s brain to notice or finish what he started.

Harry of course follows after him and puts a hand on his hip where he stands at the stove, his chin tucked over Zayn’s shoulder.

“I need you to not worry so much about me,” Harry says quietly in Zayn’s ear. “Please don’t. Worry about the case and Destiny’s mother and the evidence of who this guy is. Because I’m fine, babe. And you’re going to find him before he finds you, I know it.”

It feels like they keep having the same discussion over and over again: Zayn silently worried over Harry’s safety, Harry’s reassurances that he doesn’t need saving, and their stilted silence while ignoring the food in front of them. It’s like the entire day, they keep saying the same shit.

So Zayn sighs and turns around to face Harry once more, their lips meeting in the middle. Harry, smart and effervescent and kind, wants to use his nervous energy for good. To help Zayn fix himself. And if Harry wants Zayn to stop, if Harry wants him to ease up a bit on the worrying, then he will.

_I’ll try._

Harry pulls back and takes in all of Zayn’s features individually. Zayn watches Harry’s eyes move from his mouth, to his eyes, nose, forehead, chin. He runs a hand down Zayn’s cheek.

“That morning,” Harry says with his blank, passive expression, “I was in my boxers. I woke up and heard Niall screaming. Screaming bloody murder. I should’ve ran right to him, right? But… I got dressed instead. I thought, ‘Hey if the house is on fire, I better get ready. Might even grab my guitar.’ And then I walked down the stairs and didn’t even see Destiny lying there until I was almost to the bottom.”

Zayn doesn’t know where he’s going with this.

“I’m a selfish person,” Harry nods. “I think of myself first. I heard screaming and I took the time to put myself together. Then I saw her, dead and cold on the floor, and my first thought was, ‘They’re going to think I did this, be cool Harry, don’t say a word.’”

It’s absolutely what Zayn thought, twice over, so he still doesn’t respond or try to diminish Harry or how they started. No good can come from ignoring the ways they hurt each other, mistrusted, tried to take advantage those first few days. Zayn tried to coax Harry into giving up his story, with his big Bambi eyes and strong handshake. He followed Harry to make him uneasy and nervous. And Harry absolutely pursued Zayn at first, not to flirt, but to spy. He made sure to plant himself right next to Zayn, to watch if he’d become a suspect. He needed to see how much shit he was in, how close the investigation got to pinning it on him. He used his big smile and big hands to lure Zayn in, as well.

They both lied and they both got kicked in the ass for it, once Zayn collected Harry’s spit and they acknowledged their attraction and feelings.

“I don’t think you’re selfish,” Zayn mumbles, kissing Harry’s upper lip again.

“I do.”

“Well you aren’t anymore. Not with me.”

“That’s my point,” Harry says. “I don’t want to be selfish and I want to make sure you know I’m looking into this to see if I can help.”

“But there’s nothing to _do_ , babe. This is… this is just how I am. I don’t sleep, I barely eat, I freak out over my cases, and then eventually shut down at my desk for a while. It’s just – that’s just how it is. I live this way, alone, and get by.”

The chicken gives a warning hiss behind them, like it knows it won’t be eaten unless they’re careful. It sizzles and spits, and it’s almost ironic, the way Zayn just said he barely ever eats and now their dinner almost begs him to.

But to hear it out loud for himself, to say it, how he functions and gets through the day, is completely ironic. A man so used to just “getting through it,” now has a partner to admit it to. And Harry must hear it the same way: an admitted pattern of behavior that is _not_ normal.

To prove his point, Harry reaches around Zayn to turn off the burners. He saves the chicken just in time for dinner. Zayn needs to eat.

“Well,” Harry gestures with his hand to everything Zayn just said, “I don’t accept that.”

Zayn sighs and tries to move away.

“Well you might have to,” he says with a wry smile. “I appreciate this, but there might not _be_ a solution.”

“I’m still going to keep reading,” Harry responds with a slight pout, before tucking his lip away because he must realize it looks childish. “I will.”

“That’s great, babe,” Zayn smiles, ready to have the entire conversation finally behind them. He grabs for two plates and gets their food situated, while Harry wordlessly drifts around him in the kitchen like he doesn’t know how to put a period on the end of their discussion.

It’s not until they’re seated, Zayn with water and Harry with wine, that his frown comes back. Zayn watches Harry’s frown bounce up and down. He just vowed to himself to not get so caught up in worrying over Harry, to stay at the station when he needs to, instead of flying home to check on him, and he needs to start practicing now. This dynamic, this energy between them, can’t be good for either of them. Zayn also vows to take Harry up on his previous offer: _one of these days, I’m going to tell you all about me, babe. The little things, the shit I hide. The shit no one knows._ He’s pretty sick and tired of talking about himself.

They just need to figure out one more thing, now that Zayn’s looked around his little house and saw for himself what their dynamic is. _Good, safe, together._

It bursts out of Zayn as he sets down his fork, his lungs not quite constricted enough to hold it in, his stomach’s knot tripling in size as it comes to him. Despite what they just said, he can’t help it. Just one more thing, the thing he couldn’t voice earlier when he handed over a key, something that’s been stirring under the surface for hours.

“Do you want to move in with me? Officially?”

Unmoving and not yet eating, Harry blinks three times, slowly. He smooths at his ugly shirt, the one Zayn made fun of him for and promised he would burn someday. He presses at his throat, the place Zayn thought he gripped between his hands, and suddenly Zayn gets a chill.

“Not to keep tabs on you,” Zayn quickly clarifies. “Just… You said you didn’t have anywhere else to go. And I like it when you’re here. And I don’t want you to leave. And when I gave you the key, I didn’t say it, that I want you to move in here. So now… now I’m saying it.”

_I was going to keep you here anyways, I knew I would, when I told you what it all meant. But I want you to want to be here._

Harry frowns again, his hand back up to his throat. Zayn can read people well, but he finds it difficult sometimes to read Harry.

“We barely know each other,” he eventually responds with his quiet, measured voice.

“We know enough,” Zayn rushes out. “It’s enough.”

“You thought I murdered my roommate barely a week ago,” Harry sighs, even as his face says something else, like he’s already decided.

“But you didn’t.”

Zayn does that thing with his face, that hopeful, dopey expression he’s used his entire life. It’s the face he uses when he shows off how good-looking he is. So of course Harry gives Zayn a small, lopsided smile, his teeth dig into his lip. Zayn could honestly take him there on the kitchen floor. He knows he has him for sure, can tell immediately that they’ve just decided to start a fucking life together. But he also knows Harry and knows Harry can’t make anything easy.

“I’ll stay as long as you want me to,” he ends up relenting. “So long as you eat dinner with me. Every night, at this table, we have dinner. If you’re too busy to eat during the day, I’ll make you eat dinner at least.”

Zayn snorts. And then nods.

“You have to sleep. We’ll make sure to get enough sleep together. Maybe we’ll go running,” Harry says loudly over Zayn’s annoyed groan. And then, “Sex. Lots of it.”

“Deal,” Zayn agrees, crossing his heart in earnest.

“Good.”

They sit in silence for a few seconds, their dinner cold and slightly disgusting since it had started to burn. But it’s dinner and Zayn has now vowed to eat dinner, so he lamely pokes at it with his fork.

And then he looks down at the table, his eyes suddenly burning.

“I want you,” Zayn says quietly with a nod. “I’m a brat and don’t like getting help. But you want to anyways. And you let me talk about Jesse.”

He expects another discussion, more words between two people who desperately need to know each other better. It could be an all-night thing, the two of them cuddled on the couch, as they discuss their pasts, rehash Jesse’s death, and imagine their future in this little duplex.

But instead, Harry ends up shoving the food to the side. He can clearly shut up when it counts, as he leans across the table and grabs Zayn by the shirt, to kiss him hard enough so that Jesse has to snort somewhere in the hallway.

 

\---

 

_March 26, 2019  
11:59 pm_

Harry fell asleep before showering, which Zayn sort of hates and sort of loves. They went especially hard and dirty for their second time, so much so that Zayn’s almost positive he pulled a groin muscle. He had Harry bent over the kitchen table at first, to finger him open, before they ran to the bedroom and started to blow each other up against the dresser.

Then they ended up in bed, to come twice more, with Harry on his knees again like the first time. And he was absolutely filthy by the end of it: he had come all over his back and ass, lube in his hair, and probably enough of Zayn’s spit on his neck and chest that he literally sticks to the bed sheet.

Zayn can’t help but smile. He loves and hates it, because as he is freshly showered, he should be the comfortable, sated one. And yet he’s awake, while Harry snores, sprawled on his stomach, tight little ass red to the touch, face buried in a pillow in a dreamless sleep. Zayn envies how easy it looks, to sleep and dream, to let the passion overcome you to the point of exhaustion night after night. He did it the night before, sure. But that must’ve been a one-off, because he isn’t sure how that’s possible now when his brain is as amped as it is.

_The guy from the bar looked so familiar. I’ve seen him before. We’ve spoken, I think. Somewhere along the line, our paths crossed. I did him wrong._

As he thinks and thinks, he twirls Harry’s hair between his fingers and listens. It’s still raining, so many of the normal, everyday sounds within a mid-century house are drowned out by the pitter-patter on the roof. He has the strange guy on the brain, but doesn’t hear anyone at the front door, no one trying to slide a window up, no phantom lock picks, like the guy must’ve used to bring the flowers inside.

But then something shifts in the kitchen, Zayn swears it. His entire body goes numb, he strains his ears, as he sits up in bed like he’s been forcibly hooked to a rope. It’s that same old feeling, like his equilibrium is off, too dizzy to be up and off his pillow. Even with his eyes open and completely alert, it’s like his body knows: _wake up, you’re missing it, you’re missing everything._

He hears it again.

It’s not the leaking sink, or the dirty dishes piled up next to it suddenly shifting or falling over. He can’t place if it’s one of the cabinets snapping, a tap on the back door window, a stray cat slinking along the back porch knocking over a planter.

Before he can do anything else, before he can even move another muscle, Harry’s there. He shifts so that he too can sit up in bed, one leg out to match Zayn’s, the other tucked up by Zayn’s ass. He curls his entire body around Zayn, holds him by the chest and arms, kisses his shoulder.

Something settles, something clicks into place, when Harry does it. Zayn feels himself coming down, his body disengages. He doesn’t go into robot mode because maybe tonight he doesn’t have one.

“Did you hear that?” he can’t help but whisper, his hand scratching at his chest, the spot where his gun is normally stashed.

“No baby, I didn’t hear anything.”

“It was a sound from the kitchen.”

“There’s nothing there,” Harry whispers, his voice slightly hoarse and used. Exhausted.

“But what if – ”

Harry pulls at him until his head is back down on his favorite pillow. He situates himself around Zayn again, this time with a leg between Zayn’s, and he’s sticky and lubed up and Zayn loves it and hates it all once. His brain whirs, makes a sound like an old camcorder when it’s rewinding. Loud and abrasive in its noise.

Harry kisses his neck over and over, right over his pulse point, and he doesn’t have to say settle down and rest, because Zayn feels it. Even in the midst of his freak out and the way his body can’t quite relax just yet. He feels it.

It takes another fifteen minutes for it to fully work, for Harry’s shot of morphine to kick in and get Zayn settled.

But when it does work, when everything is fine and the world is safe, not a sound to be heard, Zayn could almost cry.

 

\---

 

_March 27, 2019  
4:19 am _

Jesse was good at diverting attention away from Zayn when it really mattered. When the Nielsen brothers would come to Jesse’s and ask if he wanted to go throw rocks off the interstate overpass, if Zayn was there, Jesse always said no. Because the Nielsens were assholes to Zayn and the whole neighborhood knew it. They called him scrawny, sometimes said things to each other about him in Spanish so Zayn would gape at them with wide eyes, wishing with all his might he could understand. Even as a kid, he was a masochist.

Jesse would ask the boys to leave, tell them he had plans with Zayn or with the Hope girls across the street. That sometimes did it, Jesse saying he had girls to kiss and didn’t want any “pervs around to watch.”

Zayn always loved that about him.

This time Zayn really does dream of Jesse, during his three-hour bout of sleep. He dreams of Jesse and his hands, the way they looked when he put up the lock on the inside of his door to keep his siblings out. He dreams of the time the Nielsens and their friend Jorge chased him from Manny Lucero’s house all the way to the park, their fucking dog barking at his heels. They always laughed when other kids were afraid of their dog, even when Zayn would start to cry.

Jesse saved the day, though. Like he always did, when it mattered, he made sure to keep Zayn safe. They never tried to beat Zayn up, but there was one time it seemed like they might.

That’s the dream. The full dream, of the time Zayn almost got beat up. It was after Manny’s older brother had shown the group of boys a few wrestling moves. They all figured Zayn was the smallest, so he’d be the easiest to body slam into the grass.

Zayn could hear it in his mind, Jesse as he pointed over his shoulder and yelled, “Run, Zayn! Go to my house, my room, and lock the door!”

And that’s exactly what Zayn did. He hightailed it down the street, through the Klein house, all the way up to Jesse’s bedroom, and slid the lock into place. He almost fainted from the exertion, the adrenaline of almost getting the shit kicked out of him. But he also felt it in his bones: _Jesse is my best friend and he wouldn’t let anything bad happen to me._

Zayn always did what Jesse said to do.

_Nice and safe._

When he wakes up from the swirl of the dream, he’s sweating. It wasn’t a nightmare and it certainly wasn’t the memory of some traumatic day that has stayed with him all these years. The Nielsen brothers and Manny Lucero didn’t beat him up, it was fine. They didn’t even need Jesse to defend Zayn because it all sort of dissipated once Manny’s mom yelled at him from her front porch, to come home since the streetlights had come on twenty minutes before.

But it was another time Jesse made sure Zayn knew what to do, to save himself. Jesse didn’t have to stick up for him that day, but he did show Zayn how to run until his lungs hurt.

Zayn blinks a few times, to rid the sleep from his eyes, and realizes his hands are in fists. The dream was a big circle: Jesse’s hands, his voice, the command to run, to hide. Zayn presses his fists to his eye sockets, his knuckles white, his forearms tense and trembling.

Without any further thought, Zayn reaches for the tshirt Harry tossed to the floor earlier. He grips it in his hands tightly, under his chin, and curls himself towards Harry who is still next to him in bed.

He holds the shirt as tightly as he can, to settle his mind.

The shirt, like Harry, is yet another anchor.

And even though he wakes up a short time later, yet again, screaming his head off, Zayn likes to think it helps.

 

 

\---

 

 

**DAY 9**

 

_March 27, 2019  
8:00 am_

It’s immediately clear to Zayn that the house has been put back together. As he steps over a stray shoe and a red scarf that must’ve fallen off of a coat rack in the entryway, he knows someone cleaned up after a fight. It’s the old “act natural” trick, organized chaos, but only just so.

This house had something happen in it, and someone picked up most of the pieces.

They were called in to a gorgeous house in the Memorial neighborhood, not far from where Warren Buffett lives. The streets near Fairacres are still paved in original 1800s brick, many of the houses have security gates, and rumor has it that one of the biggest has an actual panic room built into the basement.

It’s like clockwork: when Omaha natives hit it big, when they amass more money than they know what to do with, they always seem to find their way to this neighborhood. New money disguised as old, new parents tucked behind glass front doors, loading up their kids into BMWs inside four-car garages.

Even though it’s not an active crime scene and there’s no actual evidence to decipher yet, CJ hands Zayn a pair of gloves and shifts to his right. He understands: Zayn needs to snap the gloves on, to impress upon the family that they’re serious about dissecting the space. Because CJ noticed the look on Zayn’s face, that knowing look of “something isn’t right here, and it’s not just about a missing teenager.” CJ carefully moves his way into the living room, while Zayn ventures forward to the back of the house, to spread out and get to the bottom of it.

Mrs. Lenz made the call about an hour before, to report her teenage son as missing. She said she and her husband woke up the same time as always for work, to find that Troy Lenz, age fifteen, hadn’t slept in his bed. The last they saw of him was at dinner the night before, in the dining room as a family, same time as always. He seemed normal, happy, if not a bit ruffled because of a few upcoming pre-calc tests. He went off to his room to study and that was it.

Mrs. Lenz noted that before they called the police, she had called Troy’s two best friends, a neighbor across the street, and a girl he had known since he was a toddler. “Not his girlfriend,” but someone who he talks to daily and trusts to no end.

No one knew anything. No one had seen Troy Lenz.

That was all they knew. That was all there was to go on.

But Zayn doesn’t buy it because he can tell: there had been an altercation in this house, either the night before or that morning, and someone made it right again. He’s seen this type of scene before, many times, with just enough small personal details strewn through out the house to make it seem natural. A cracked plate in the sink, a kitchen drawer that was fucked up and wouldn’t close correctly, a toolbox near the back door from some project that needed fixing after a fight.

Mr. and Mrs. Lenz, probably so sure that Zayn would immediately go up to their son’s room to look around for clues, eyed him as he instead combed the main floor with CJ close by if he needed to yell out a note.

There was a scuff on the floor near the staircase, from a shoe or a thrown object. Zayn could see three different indents into the wood near the fireplace and on the coffee table, in a room so cavernous, his entire duplex could’ve fit inside it. A few broken piano keys in the lounge. And he would bet his entire 401k, that if he moved the randomly placed family photo in the hall nearing the kitchen, he’d find a hole punched into the plaster. _Anger issues. Men with anger issues always punch holes in walls. It’s pathetic._

He scribbles in his folio, as his eyes zoom around the little details.

_Domestic disputes. Numerous._

_Troy age fifteen must hear the fighting._

_Fight last night?_

_Troy – hit you too?_

Eventually Mr. Lenz gives into his impatience. He asks Zayn if there’s anything he needs, any more information to give up, to find his son. But Zayn declines and gives CJ a look: _keep the parents busy, I’ll be back._ He ventures up the massive spiral staircase to the second floor, where two uniformed officers await. As the first cops on the scene, they dutifully checked the house and Troy’s room for any signs of him. Zayn is told that it was all clear, and his room seemed normal. It didn’t look like he had packed a bag in a hurry, no empty drawers, no wallet or phone to look through, since they were probably on Troy at the time of his disappearance.

But Detective Malik can see more than the uniforms can. He can see more than Troy’s parents. There is in fact an empty compartment, a small one within a desk drawer, that probably held cash. Two pairs of shoes missing from the closet, three empty hangers at the very front of it. And of course, just as he suspected, a few photo frames removed from a wall. He runs a gloved finger over the wallpaper where it’s discolored slightly, in perfect rectangles from the frames’ edges, and notices the window leading out onto a small terrace.

_Could’ve jumped it. Fled the house on foot._

Zayn makes his way back downstairs, to find Mr. and Mrs. Lenz slightly agitated in the living room. They had been pestering CJ for answers, if CJ’s red face is anything to go by. Zayn watches for a few moments, almost lost within his own head at how he’s able to be upright at the moment, and how easy the morning has been. Once he woke up screaming from yet another dream he can’t remember, once he almost vomited all over Harry, once he realized it happened again and he wasn’t getting any better, he paced the living room for awhile. And then the call came from CJ, he changed into his real detective clothes, and now here he is.

By all accounts, Zayn should be curled up in a ball on the floor, not working as if everything is normal. His brain shouldn’t allow him to eye a scene, walk around a stranger’s house like he belongs there. He shouldn’t be okay.

And yet he has coffee breath like any other Friday, his hands don’t shake, and his notes are actually a bit clearer and more concise compared to normal. He’s fine, everything is fine, he can work and pick apart a scene and talk to a family, no problem.

_That can’t be good._

CJ brings him back into focus and snaps him out of it with a literal snap of the fingers in front of his eyes. Zayn shakes his head and instead of thinking of his fucked up psyche, he focuses on the case at hand, the new case the two detectives were called in on because everyone knew they hadn’t solved their Dead Hooker yet.

“Yes,” he grunts, his voice even worse than the morning before, from all the screaming. “Right.”

Zayn steps forward and closes his folio so Mr. Lenz can’t see his scribbled notes. He stares at Mrs. Lenz with his bloodshot eyes and wrinkled shirt, who won’t look at him for more than three seconds at a time, and then moves towards the windows. The street is full of cop cars, totally lit up for such an overcast, gross morning.

“What did you say her name was again?” Zayn hears himself ask, as he removes his gloves with steady, slow movements.

“What?” Mr. Lenz asks, confused.

“The girl. The one Troy knew as a kid.”

Mrs. Lenz clears her throat and steps forward, but her husband quickly shuts that down. It’s so obvious, so painfully obvious, that Zayn almost feels bad having to shove it out into the open. Sometimes people who think they’re hiding a secret, people with true secrets to keep, are under the illusion no one knows. But when Mr. Lenz holds up a hand to quiet his wife and she immediately steps back, her eyes down to the floor, anyone in the fucking vicinity would know.

“Annika McNeely-Norris,” Mr. Lenz says gruffly behind his mustache, annoyed at answering the same question twice. “But we called her parents, we’re friends with them, and they haven’t seen Troy in days.”

Zayn nods.

“He’s there.”

The Lenzes gawk at him, even CJ gives him an odd look, at his tone. His resigned “I do this every day” tone. Like with Douglas McDonough, when he showed up and gave no comfort, no emotion, no flourish. Now he’s just a man stating a fact.

CJ bristles and must think Zayn’s lost it. He must think he’s lost his edge or needs a moment in the car, to sit and have a cigarette, before explaining his theory. How it’s _just_ a theory, not fact. But CJ doesn’t know what happened that morning with Harry; he can tell something is wrong, but not why. Something has been wrong ever since he picked Zayn up at home and handed him a Styrofoam cup of coffee. Harry, who peered at them from the front door, and Zayn, who didn’t return his goodbye wave.

It’s Zayn’s turn to hold up a hand, to keep CJ quiet.

“Did you have the fight last night or this morning?” he asks quietly, so none of the officers near the door can hear.

Mr. Lenz’s jaw drops.

“I’m guessing last night,” Zayn nods woefully. “Another argument, some harsh words, maybe you raised your hand again.”

Mr. Lenz again tries to hold up a hand to halt the conversation, this time to Zayn. But Zayn doesn’t have time for men who hit their wives, so he turns to Mrs. Lenz instead.

“Did he hit you? Last night?” he says louder now.

The entire room all stare at Zayn and his tone, his way of discussing domestic violence as if it were the weather. Mrs. Lenz looks as if she’ll start crying, which is usually Zayn’s cue to stop, to back off and let CJ step in. If he senses himself getting too worked up, too angry at the case at hand, CJ has to save the day. It’s what they do.

But Zayn keeps going.

“I don’t think he hurts Troy. But maybe he hit you. Or maybe it was just worse this time. Louder. Maybe you hit the wall,” Zayn turns to address Mr. Lenz and gestures to the hole he knows is behind a photo. He gestures to all of the walls, to any number of places this asshole could’ve punched, so he wouldn’t be tempted to hit members of his family. “But my guess is Troy heard it. He heard the whole thing from his room and was sick of it. Grabbed a few of his things, some clothes and some family pictures of when you all were happy. And he ran away. Couldn’t stand to listen any longer.”

“Detective – ” Lenz tries to say, absolutely livid to be called out on his shit.

Zayn shakes his head and does that face that could shut a fucking serial killer up.

“You said her name is Annika, his friend. Probably his girlfriend, honestly. He’s there. We can send someone over, to check, to see where she’s hiding him so her parents won’t know. But he’s there and he’s upset.”

CJ shifts closer, to try to diffuse it again.

“You should stop smacking your wife around, Mr. Lenz,” Zayn nods with a somber expression. “Your son can’t take it anymore.”

And with that, with the case solved, Zayn exits the Lenz residence and heads to their shared car. He needs a cigarette and he needs to rest his voice.

After another morning spent screaming bloody murder and dreaming of something he didn’t actually witness, he needs the few moments alone.

 

\---

 

_March 27, 2019  
8:54 am _

An officer runs into Zayn’s desk and he almost hisses like an actual fucking animal. Like a cornered feral cat, his arms tucked up against his chest, his face furious, on the total defense. It must look insane to anyone watching, how Detective Malik scares as easily as a schoolgirl when it comes to sudden movement. How he freaks out, jumps away from people, almost protracts his claws to lash out.

The uniform says sorry, his eyebrows up to his hairline, and moves away with a cup of coffee in his hand.

If CJ sees the interaction, he doesn’t comment on it.

The whole morning has felt off from the jump. Zayn presses his fingertips to his temples, closes his eyes, and tries to settle his thrumming heart rate. It’s manic energy again, his adrenaline up and down too quickly. The morning felt calm, he was on a scene and could keep his voice level. But now he’s lost it again, he can’t breathe right. And just that morning only a few hours before, he had Harry staring at him yet again in slight disbelief.

Apparently the newest dream featured just as much screaming as the dream from the night before. Zayn, screaming bloody murder, as Harry tried to wake him up.

“You cried and cried,” Harry said with an awed whisper as they took a shower together right after, “and screamed for help, like… like it had just happened and you were standing over Jesse. You screamed so ‘they could hear it,’ to ‘wake up and come find you.’ To save him.”

Zayn held his head between his hands, careful not to get soap in his eyes, and groaned internally. He was sick and tired of freaking Harry out, of having Harry question his every move. He wasn’t crazy, he’s sworn it for years, and yet… maybe he fucking is. It was yet another dream he couldn’t remember, of that night, of things he never said or thought because he didn’t fucking witness anything. _I was asleep on the lounger. I wasn’t there, I missed it. All I heard was a scuffle and all I saw was Tim running away. That’s it. That’s all._

But he doesn’t trust himself, or his mind. It’s playing tricks on him, he’s seeing things that aren’t there and not seeing the shit that is. His eyes literally go black when he exerts energy now, his body so exhausted and spent, it’s like his brain wants to prevent itself from sending signals to his five senses.

Harry washed his hair for him and he barely felt it. He couldn’t smell the breakfast Harry made him, he couldn’t eat, his ears wouldn’t stop ringing. When CJ called and he bolted from the table to rip his front door open to search for roses, to eye his block up and down, he could barely feel his legs engaged to keep him upright.

And now he apparently goes to crime scenes and shuts everything off, shuts down completely, until he’s a walking crime-solving robot, speaking of domestic violence like it’s as blasé as a fucking sports wrap up.

Once they got in to the station and Troy Lenz was accounted for just as Zayn suspected, CJ offered to put the file together, to close it immediately with their captain. Zayn had never been more grateful for his partner in his life, even when he sucked it up and called Mrs. Lenz to apologize for his attitude.

Zayn also told her if she ever needed help, if her husband ever laid a hand on her again, to call him, to call Detective Malik and he’d be there in ten minutes tops.

But now he’s at his desk, trying to focus on yet another file from his past, and can barely see the words he wrote. He can barely contain his reaction when someone accidentally bumps into him. All he can do is think about the possibility of more roses showing up at his home, the final piece of the map, where he’ll finally find it. Once the map is finished, what then? What is he being lead to? It’s been too quiet, suspiciously calm, and it’s not right. It doesn’t _feel_ right.

Zayn shakes his head and audibly grunts. He slaps at his cheeks, tries to wake himself up and focus. He needs to use his old tactic: if he’s paying attention to blood spatter and murder weapons, he doesn’t have to care about anything else. He won’t think about cute boys in bars, how the one who reminded him of Jesse now wants to see him suffer. He won’t think about Harry, not right now, not when he has to find the man with the crazed expression. Hard eyes, sharp teeth, the look of disdain he wore just for Zayn. He has to focus on him, just him, even as his emotions run haywire.

_Focus, focus, focus._

_I couldn’t place it before, but I can place it now. Fear. This is fear. I’m afraid. I’m so fucking afraid, I can barely function._

_Focus, focus, focus._

“Zayn,” CJ interrupts his manic thoughts. “You good?”

Zayn finally looks up at his partner across from him at his own desk, the frown lines that seem to be getting deeper by the day, the way he’s slumped over a case file as well. It’s not fair for CJ to continually worry over Zayn, when he has enough shit to worry and stress over.

“I’m good.”

“You sure?”

Zayn can’t help but smile a bit, the _absolutely not_ unspoken between them. But they both can lie when they need to, so when Zayn says, “I’m sure. Let’s just… keep focusing on the old cases,” that’s exactly what they do.

 

\---

 

_March 27, 2019  
1:15 pm _

When Zayn finally gets up from his desk to take a piss, the fourth cup of coffee having gone straight through him, he passes out in the hallway outside of the men’s room.

Zayn and CJ had just realized, with somber looks on their faces, that they were almost through the Questionable pile they had created. After they hit nothing but dead ends all day, with the bar footage and the bartender interviews, this was all they had. It had been so quiet, no gifts had shown up for Zayn, and it made them both uneasy. They combed through the files one by one together, their heads close in the conference room, until Zayn couldn’t stare at the knuckles of CJ’s hands up close anymore, every time he flipped open a file and demanded Zayn look closely at the male faces.

But now they’re almost done. Only a few cases left to analyze, their last thread of hope almost boxed up again for storage, and CJ looked as if he might explode.

So Zayn needed a minute once they were back to their desks, to piss like a normal person and take a break to rest his eyes after yet another call with Harry. Now it’s Harry’s turn to freak out, to check in on him, every hour on the hour. The dream that morning kept Harry up, he didn’t sleep anymore either, and he’s running on fumes as well.

It’s like one second Zayn’s in the deserted hallway reaching for the door handle, his mind wandering to when he hung up the phone and CJ made the comment, “you’d do anything for each other, wouldn’t you,” and how true it is. And then it’s like two seconds later he comes to on the grimy tile in the interrogation hallway, on his back, eyes staring up at florescent lights.

 _Jesse, Jesse, Jesse, Jesse,_ his mind supplies, the sudden image of Jesse Klein with wide eyes and a finger held up over his lips, a signal for Zayn to keep quiet. It’s an image Zayn can’t place, a time in their shared childhood he can’t recall.

Zayn tries to get his bearings, tries to move up off the floor. It takes a few seconds, to breathe and assess how he ended up here. Thankfully, no one is around to see the freak out he has. It would look pretty ridiculous for one of the city’s topmost lead detectives to faint, his eyes rolled back in his head, slumping to the floor when he has a case to solve.

No one sees it.

_Jesus fucking Christ, Malik. Get your shit together. Stop this. Just stop._

Zayn breathes. He tries to erase the image of Jesse with a finger up to his lips, to shush Zayn, and clambers up off the floor. He smooths his shirt, wonders how long he was out for, how long he’s been away from his desk. He heads into the restroom and ignores his phone vibrating in his pocket, at CJ probably wondering where he’s run off to.

He also tells himself quite firmly that Harry will never hear about this. Ever.

 

\---

 

_March 27, 2019  
9:33 pm_

_I don’t like this._

That’s Zayn’s first thought as he steps into the downtown venue and his eyes immediately begin to scan the faces around him. Men and women pack the place from top to bottom, the type of small concert venue bands much bigger than Harry’s must play all the time. There are two bars on either side of the sloped room, the rows of seats between them. The stage has a red curtain down and everything, like it’s an actual concert, with house music blasting from the speakers overhead and crew guys behind the scenes making sure the drum kit is set up properly.

Harry made Zayn promise that he would only come to see the show if he was okay, if he was comfortable leaving the station, if CJ was also headed out, if they had made any leeway in the case.

As it was, Zayn was not okay, but he wouldn’t divulge that to Harry. He couldn’t stew at his desk any longer, he practically shoved CJ towards his car to go home and sleep, and no, they didn’t have any news regarding the case. Not that Zayn would tell Harry that last part either. It’s just that Zayn’s had a foreboding, nervous feeling ever since he woke up on the floor and he can’t quiet shake it.

_I don’t like this. It’s been too quiet. Something is about to happen._

But it’s Harry’s big night. Zayn figures he could use it as another opportunity to search the people around him for the strange man with the hard eyes. If he’s being followed, he hasn’t exactly given the guy much to _follow_ the last day or so. It’s just been home and station, station and home, over and over again. So even though he had a weird feeling about the night ahead, he pumped himself full of caffeine, even had two Red Bulls like he was in college again, and tried to perk up for the show. He changed into black jeans and his leather jacket, the one with white stripes going up the sleeves, and tried to school his face back into neutral instead of _holy shit I fainted earlier, what do I do, how do I recover?_

He settles at the left bar and orders a draft beer, to blend in and have something tangible to hold in his shaking hand. A few people try to chat him up, a girl with hoop earrings he could fit a fist through, and a guy in a fucking turtleneck. His face must give it away, that he can’t handle any menial conversation, and luckily neither of them stick around long.

So far he doesn’t see the man from the other night. All of the men around him seem too carefree and happy-go-lucky, excited to see their favorite band and not at all interested in Zayn Malik. He finds that sitting still for too long signals to his body that it’s time to shut down, so he eventually makes his way around the venue, the beer warming in his hand. Another girl tries to talk to him and he politely smiles as he moves away.

When the first rumblings begin behind the red curtain, Zayn settles back behind the ticketed seats in a standing area, since he’s wearing a VIP badge and can’t be bothered to sit still. He watches the curtain rise and Harry’s band make their way forward, as the people who came early enough for the opener clap and yell out for the hot guitarist. They have a few fans up at the front, regulars Zayn recognizes from the bar, which is nice. Supportive. Harry, so effervescent and gorgeous, smiles at the rest of the sloping crowd and begins the introduction.

“Hello you gorgeous people. I know you’re here for The Prestige,” Harry says with that sly, half smirk of his, winking, “but maybe you’ll let us hang out for awhile.”

The crowd, seemingly already drawn in to Harry Styles and his charm, gets a bit louder at that. They clap and a few even yell out songs for them to play, which has Harry smiling wider. He really did it up this time, in expensive-looking satin pink pants and a black button up, his dimples prominent under the lights, his hair shiny and bouncing around his shoulders. Zayn can’t help but smile. His face almost cracks in two at the muscle movement he hasn’t felt much lately, at how beautiful Harry is.

“I’m happy you’re here, and we’re happy we’re here,” Harry says as he grabs for the mic stand. “So without further ado, we’re going to make some sounds now.”

They make their way through their regular set, as the crowd beneath them get drunker, bob their heads and raise a few lighters here and there. The place is just grungy enough for security to not care about the fire hazard, so Zayn too raises his during an especially upbeat song he doesn’t recognize. He raises it again when Harry plays that one Killers cover he did the first time he sang to Zayn, which has them both smiling.

But beyond that, Zayn makes sure to not focus too hard on the music. As the band plays a few of their original songs, he centers himself. He needs to be aware, to look around at the people near him and see if they’re looking at _him_ instead of the stage. He also makes sure to shift the gun holster on his chest, to feel for his Glock with a nervous hand, even though he knows it’s absolutely there and absolutely loaded. Something continues to creep up on him as the night goes on, as more people pour into the venue. It’s that paranoia slinking up his back like it wants to wake him up from a dreamless sleep. _I don’t like this. It doesn’t feel right,_ Zayn thinks as some random guy makes eye contact. He recoils from it, frowns at the guy until he startles and looks away. He holds his warm, stale beer tighter and tries to blink, to make sure his eyes don’t give out again.

Eventually he’s pulled out of his head when he hears Harry speaking, slightly out of breath, and closer to the crowd at the edge of the stage.

“We have two songs left,” he muses as he slaps hands with a few people below him, “and I hope you like them.”

Zayn smiles when Harry’s eyes finally find his out in the crowd, their expressions mirrored. Maybe Harry didn’t think Zayn would actually show up, or maybe he thought he would try to play it cool and not look for Zayn. But as always, their magnetism kicks in and for whatever reason, even in the midst of Zayn’s terror and on-edge attitude, they can’t stay away from each other for long.

“They’re both cover songs, since I can tell this is a good cover crowd,” Harry continues, holding both the mic and his hip. “The first is one of my favorite Journey songs, just sappy enough to work tonight. And the second… well, the second, you’ll just have to see. And trust me.”

Zayn watches Harry wink at a few girls over to the right, the trio already lost and in love with Harry Styles.

Harry was right because the Journey song is absolutely fucking ridiculous, since Harry clearly dedicates it to Zayn without really saying so. He leans forward every few notes, his shining eyes on Zayn and Zayn alone, like he knows it’ll make everyone jealous. A few heads even turn towards Zayn, to take in the person who Harry can’t stop locking eyes with.

When Harry sings the line, “Wondering where I am, lost without you,” straight to Zayn, Zayn resolutely rolls his eyes at the ridiculous poignancy of it all. That has Harry smiling all the way through the end of the song, and then into the acoustic Pussycat Dolls cover that causes the crowd to lose their fucking minds.

It’s during the last song, in the middle of a chorus, when it all falls apart around him. Zayn, who only moments before only had eyes for Harry, suddenly whips his head around at the flash of red to his left. _See, I can focus when I need to. I can handle it._ Bobbing and weaving through the dancing crowd, Zayn makes out the bouquet of red roses. Someone carries them in between people, moving them out of the way, to hold the flowers high above their heads. Like they’re heading for the front. Or the stage. To deliver them to someone special.

_Harry._

Before Zayn can question himself or decide to keep his cool, his hand finally gives out. He drops the beer to the floor, glass exploding, and goes for his gun. He moves forward to follow the roses, calls out even for the person to stop, wait, don’t fucking move, as people around him begin to notice.

People inhale at the sight of the gun, a man throws his arm out to move a group of girls out of Zayn’s way, and one by one, the people closest to the flowers gasp and begin to scream.

Zayn should’ve brought his badge out from behind his tshirt, but it’s too late. He’s on the hunt for the man holding the red roses, the man getting closer and closer to the stage.

“Hey!” he bellows, moving people out of his way with his left hand, “Hey! Stop where you are!”

It’s about then that the music cuts out, Harry’s band suddenly aware of the impending panic within the crowd. They all part for Zayn, people running to move away from him, people on their phones, a security guard hot on his tail. But Zayn doesn’t take it in or ingest any of it, not the fear of civilians in his midst, or what Harry must be thinking, or how it’ll look after the fact. He just needs to see who brought the flowers, what the note says, where the map will lead.

_I need the flowers because I need the map, and I can’t let them get close to Harry, he’s too close to Harry, why the fuck would you do this here?_

When the people at the front finally realize that Zayn’s been calling out for the person holding the roses, they stop him. They must push back, because suddenly Zayn’s at the front and a young kid with the bouquet of roses is shoved back towards Zayn with his eyes wild and scared.

“I didn’t – I didn’t do anything,” he says in a panic, turning towards the crazy guy with the fucking gun, the roses shaking in his hand. “I swear!”

Zayn rushes ahead and grabs the kid by the shirt, his eyes scanning the flowers held together with a white ribbon. It’s not the stranger from the bar, not even close, but he must have sent these. He must’ve gotten a lackey to deliver them straight to Harry Styles up on that stage.

His vision starts to blur slightly, he sways on the spot from dizziness, but he’s a fucking detective, damn it.

“Who the fuck gave you these flowers?” Zayn practically screams at the kid, spit flying.

“No – no one.”

“Fucking say it, who gave these to you? Who sent you? Fucking tell me,” Zayn screams as he points his gun at the kid’s chest. “Say it. Who sent you?”

The kid starts to gesture over his shoulder at a girl, a young girl no older than eighteen who has her hands over her mouth. A scared girl who looks like Destiny, with big eyes and blonde hair. Just… a girl.

A girl who was about to get flowers from the kid. Her date. Her boyfriend.

The flowers aren’t held together with twine, there isn’t a note attached, and this isn’t the man from the bar.

It’s then that Zayn finally comes back down to earth, his heart beating so hard it’s about to burst clean out of his chest. The entire room stares at him, right as a security guard grabs for his jacket. He finally blinks, after minutes of going without it, and looks up at the stage. Harry, his eyes wide and yet sad at the same time, holds the mic down by his side. It’s over, their set is over, cut short by only half a song.

And because he’s smarter than Zayn and the one who truly saves the day when it comes to Zayn, he yells out so the whole room can hear it. From end to end, back to front, Harry’s voice carries.

“He’s a cop.”

Zayn deflates and lets the kid’s shirt go. He steps back and into the chest of the security guard, his gun down at his side.

“I’m a cop,” he mumbles, dazed. “I’m a cop. I’m a cop.”

The room begins to murmur, entire groups of friends still eye him like he’s crazy even as he slowly and arduously lifts his badge out to smack him in the chest.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbles again, his hand in his hair, his eyes on no one in particular. He can’t see anymore. It’s all blurry and faded, the colors blend together, he can’t see Harry at all. “I’m sorry.”

At some point Harry speaks into the mic again and apologizes for not finishing their song. But that it’s a family emergency and he must go, the whole band has to wrap. Zayn hears it, hears himself be referred to as Harry’s family, but it’s like his ears are under water. He stumbles away from the crowd and back towards the entrance of the venue where two uniforms eye him like he’s fucking crazy. Someone called the cops, someone must’ve dialed 9-1-1 to report a man with a gun inside a club, which is terrifying and horrifying and the most embarrassing thing Zayn can think of. He caused harm to the people in that club, he made them fear for their lives, just him, just Zayn and his stupid fucking decisions.

He shouldn’t have come.

He should’ve gone home and waited for Harry, should’ve tried to rest his eyes, to rest his mind.

When he’s escorted from the building, he keeps his head low. He’s afraid he’s about to faint again, and he can’t let Harry see that, as he steps behind him and holds a hand to his back tenderly.

_I don’t deserve you. I don’t deserve this at all._

 

\---

 

_March 27, 2019  
11:11 pm_

The more Zayn paces back and forth, the more agitated he becomes. He paces the length of his living room and kitchen, over and over, trying to place the emotion bubbling beneath the surface. He’s on edge, uneasy, his stomach a constant ball of pressure. He knows he’s upset, but he can’t pinpoint what has made him the most upset. There are just so many things to choose from.

He does this for about fifteen minutes straight while Harry showers and gets cleaned up from his strenuous night on stage. They didn’t speak on the ride home or discuss the fact that Zayn had to call his fucking captain and explain what happened inside the venue. They didn’t speak when Zayn wordlessly made Harry wait in the car while he swept the apartment for any strange men or the gifts they leave. They didn’t talk at all, Harry went to shower alone, and Zayn now knows why.

_Anger._

It’s anger. That’s the emotion Zayn feels now, after days upon days of anxiety, stress, and fear. It’s the emotion Harry must feel radiating off of him. There’s so much to be angry for, and first and foremost, there’s no getting around it: their situation is way too fucking fucked to work. And it’s about damn time that Harry fucking realizes it and gets the fuck away.

He’s angry that Jesse died. Angry that Destiny had to be murdered because of him. He’s really fucking angry with his life, at the fact that a man wants him to suffer day in and day out; the roses and the taunting; the way his home was violated while he was in a fucking police station because he beat the shit out of Harry. Harry, _my Harry, who should fucking walk away from this._

Zayn doesn’t notice him walk into the room, dripping wet in just a towel, until he does another lap from the kitchen into the living room and feels Harry’s fingers skim his palm.

“Please sit down,” Harry says quietly from the armchair, his hands wringing in his lap when Zayn pulls his hand away.

“I can’t.”

_I’m angry at this fucker with the teeth, I’m angry with myself, but I’m also angry at you. Why aren’t you more upset? Why aren’t you angry with me? I fucked up your night, I fucked myself over by getting the cops called, I pulled a fucking gun in a club._

When he looks up at Harry and uses his expression to ask what the fuck he is still doing here, with Zayn, in his fucking living room instead of running far away, Harry sighs.

“I’m not going anywhere and I’m not mad at you,” he says with an ambivalent shrug. “I know you think I should be, but I’m not.”

Zayn grits his teeth.

“Why?”

“Because I kind of… expected this?” Harry responds, moving to his feet so he can pull Zayn from the kitchen and down next to him on the couch. “I knew this would all catch up with you: no sleep, no food, no break in the case.”

Zayn lets himself be manhandled into a seated position, his head in his hands, and tries to breathe through it. He’s angry, he’s so fucking angry, he can barely see straight. And he can’t really see straight to begin with, so it feels even worse.

But then fast as anything, he deflates. His skeletal frame and major muscle groups take a breather to find some form of relief from the incessant stress. He hunches, curls, relaxes, his head resting on his thighs as Harry cards his fingers through jet black hair. He doesn’t feel himself falling into a half sleep, though. It’s more like a half-emotion: still angry, but too exhausted to keep it up to a hundred.

“I’m so sorry,” Zayn whispers, his voice back to being rough and used like after his dream that morning. “I’m so, so fucking sorry.”

 “Babe, stop,” Harry shushes him, his fingers tugging slightly at Zayn’s hair as he begins to rub at his back and shoulder. “Please stop.”

“I ruined your night. I fucked up the show, I…” Zayn says as he tucks his hands over the crown of his head like they’re participating in a 1950s bomb drill.

Harry leans down to kiss at Zayn’s shoulders and neck, his lips soft from his shower, smelling of Zayn’s soap and shampoo. The scent more than anything else has Zayn decompressing even further, his toes curled up in his boots, his spine leveling.

“You did not ruin my night,” Harry says quietly. “We were practically done with our set, we’re not mad, I’m not mad. And I… I know you’re upset with yourself for freaking out and pulling your gun. But babe, you’re a cop and once they all knew it, they settled down. They thought you were just working a case.”

_Which I was. Sort of. Except the poor kid was innocent, just wanted to bring flowers to a girl because flowers are supposed to be a nice gesture… and I pointed a gun at his chest?_

There’s no escaping the fact that Zayn fucked up big time in that concert venue. He let an insignificant coincidence lead him astray, the big bad detective with his gun and badge plowing his way through a crowd. He could’ve hurt someone. Someone could’ve gotten trampled if the whole crowd decided to cram the exits. He could’ve hurt the kid.

But then the other half of his mind supplies him with _but if it really was someone heading towards Harry, they could’ve had a knife or a gun of their own, I had to check, I had to, it’s Harry, I have to keep Harry safe._

Maybe Harry reads his mind because his hand tightens over Zayn’s shoulder and he groans.

“I’m not made of porcelain, Zayn,” he says gruffly. “I’m fine. I am fine.”

_You might not be fine for long. There’s still another piece of the map. He’s still out there. It’s been too quiet._

“I’m sorry.”

“I know you are. Now can we… I won’t even ask if we should make something to eat. So – let’s please go get some sleep. Please?” Harry practically begs, his towel starting to fall open as he shifts up and off the couch.

And maybe he uses it to his advantage, because it draws Zayn’s head up again, despite himself, to watch the white linen fall to the floor as Harry steps into the hallway and gives a small, unsure smile over his shoulder. Zayn cracks a fourth of a smile, a small one, even though his heart hurts and his lungs ache.

He feels the anger dissipate completely. He nods, which causes Harry’s smile to light up like a neon sign. Zayn can’t help but love Harry’s ridiculous _oops!_ face as he kicks the towel towards Zayn. And that’s why Harry is so good, so decent deep down, because he wants to have a distraction for both of them. Harry, now thinking some psycho is going to try something while he’s on stage in front of a room full of people, with Zayn chasing after the guy like he has nothing to lose.

Zayn has now given Harry more of a reason to freak out. And he _really_ fucked up tonight. But Harry says he’s not mad and expected it all along. He’s still around. He hasn’t fled.

_I think I love you. I think I’ll tell you soon._

But it comes to Zayn, as he stands up and starts to follow Harry, his eyes never leaving the tight, bouncing ass ahead of him: they’re sitting ducks again, stuck up inside the house because Zayn hasn’t wanted to chance it by venturing out at night by themselves. Ever since Harry showed up on his steps all those days ago, Zayn has wanted to keep him close, keep him locked up tight. And maybe that’s the problem, maybe the guy wants them to go out. Somewhere he can follow once more, somewhere that isn’t a major public space or surrounded by other people because he would never deliver flowers at a concert. Maybe Zayn needs to draw him out, to a quiet place where no one else can bother them.

He itches to grab for his phone to tell CJ the theory.

When they get to the bedroom and the back of Harry’s knees hit the bed, he gives Zayn a look. He grabs for Zayn’s hand and moves it between his legs, to give a little preview of where Zayn’s about to fuck into him. Not his hand, not his mouth, but _here babe, right here, see?_

But Zayn shakes his head, grabs for Harry’s other hand, and kisses his knuckles. His heart rate won’t settle, no matter how naked Harry is. It’s not enough, it’s not the time.

“I can’t sleep,” he admits the half-truth. They both know that if they fuck around, Harry will be out like a light in the hopes that Zayn’s consciousness will follow.

Harry frowns. That was apparently his plan. _Fuck then sleep._

“I need – I need to be doing something. Something… useful, maybe. Something where I’m not standing still.”

_I can’t calm down, I can’t power down, I can’t let myself be stuck here right now. I can’t keep you safe, clearly, so I might as well go somewhere this fucker can follow. Somewhere he can approach. I’ll let him fucking try it._

“Alright,” Harry amends as he speaks through a blatant yawn, grabbing Zayn around the middle. “I’ll do something with you. Together.”

That’s exactly what Zayn was hoping for, so he leans in and kisses Harry with just enough tongue to not be a tease since Harry’s naked and half-hard.

 

\---

 

 _March 27, 2019  
11:57 pm_        

It’s as eerie and unsettling as ever, the way the Klein house hovers over him like Dracula’s fucking castle. It feels like an actual haunted house whenever he looks up at it, with its large windows and imposing three stories. To anyone else, it’s just a regular house, with its regular windows and barely-there attic. But to Zayn it’s his personal house of horror, huge and scary and unnerving.

He shivers, the cool spring night sending goose bumps up and down his arms. Harry must notice the way he’s acting, must get it now, after not understanding until Zayn finally told him the real story. How his body reacts viscerally to this house, his entire childhood marred by it and its stupid, open blinds in its stupid, open sunroom.

But Harry doesn’t touch or comfort him. He just stands next to Zayn on the deserted sidewalk and also looks up at the dark, desolate house empty of all its tenants. Maybe it’s a house of horror for Harry now as well, a place he can barely return to, even though all of his stuff is still up in Jesse’s old room.

That’s the plan, to get as much of Harry’s stuff out as they’re able to carry. They came up with the idea when they were driving around downtown with no where in particular to go. Harry mentioned needing more boxers, and it hit Zayn like a truck: Harry’s stuff. The Klein house. A quiet, desolate place.

He of course keeps the other half of the plan a secret, unspoken: to wander the house’s halls and see if he hears anything out of place. Maybe the man from the bar has been following them and is here now too, somewhere they can’t see. Maybe he’ll finally show himself if he thinks it’s the right time and place, the same place he murdered Destiny and the house where Zayn’s entire world was turned upside down.

_Maybe it’ll finally be over, if I can get him inside._

Zayn runs his thumb over the gun strapped to his chest. If this is it, he has to prepare himself. If this is how it goes down, he has to make sure to plan it right. Draw the man into the living room, to “talk,” before pulling his gun and calling in for back up. If the man tries anything, Zayn will use his voice. His loud, booming voice, to say _Harry, run upstairs to your room and lock the door._ It’s what Jesse used to yell to Zayn, when he taught Zayn the only way to keep himself safe: run and hide.

It’s another lesson from Jesse that Zayn never imagined needing again, and yet here they are.

Harry walks ahead of him, to give him a final few seconds to take in the fact that he’s once again stepping inside. Harry goes to unlock the front door with shaking hands, his feet a jumbled mess, sweat along his hairline. It’s like the cool breeze does nothing for his body temperature, running too hot, too crazed. So Zayn takes the key and does it for him, lets them inside into the entryway where they both know the floor still holds traces of blood. A tech told Zayn that once, back when he was a uniform and was the first person on the scene of a nasty gang fight: _don’t matter how much bleach you use, when it comes to wood like this, there’s always gonna be blood down there. It never goes away._

Harry mumbles about going to survey his room and the immediate things he should take to Zayn’s, so Zayn lets him go. He must need to get as far away from Destiny’s final resting place as he can, a straight shot up the staircase, his boots booming as he ascends it.

Zayn breathes, ignores the pain shooting from his stomach out towards his extremities and the exhaustion creeping in. He knows he finally has to finally venture into the sunroom, the place he’s refused to enter over the last week any time he’s been inside the house. He first surveys the main rooms, steps carefully around the shared space furniture the owners have kept around: the couch facing the old fireplace, two plush armchairs flanking it, and a lamp in the corner. The dining room still has a table and armed chairs, and the kitchen features only a small table with an old black rotary phone on top.

When he’s out of excuses, he makes his way towards the entryway once more. He peeks out of the window towards the top of the front door to check his surroundings: any strange men watching, any out-of-place cars across the street, pedestrians who shouldn’t be wandering around South O at midnight on a Friday?

_Clear. So far._

He heads to his right and finally steps into the sunroom. It’s practically empty except for a desk shoved against one wall, the wall that housed Jesse’s lounger. The room that once held the two loungers, packed to the brim with boxes and files from Mike’s business goings on, is now empty except for that desk. It doesn’t even have a chair to accompany it; it’s just a random room, with too many windows, and a single flattop wooden surface. The only thing on top of it is a small potted daisy. Someone should water it.

Zayn pokes at its dry leaves and frowns. Maybe they should take it back to the duplex with them and try to perk it up. He could get that flower powder mixture, whatever his dad used to use on potted plants. Get her back to where she needs to be. _See, I can appreciate flowers when the time calls for it. I’m not totally heartless._

It’s then that he feels Jesse with him, next to him, tugging at his hair. Zayn swats his hand at it, hisses at Jesse to stop, even as he smiles. Jesse must feel nostalgic, must appreciate where Zayn is currently standing. They used to have so much fun together, in this room and outside of it. Running the neighborhood, the soles of their feet as black as tar. Stolen coins from Marcy’s purse, endless ice cream Junes and popsicle Julys.

But suddenly Zayn feels his face fall into a frown. _Nostalgia’s a bitch._ He wonders what would’ve happened that night, had Jesse stayed put and not wandered upstairs. Would they have sneaked under one blanket and kept quiet while Tim Bates robbed the house? Would Jesse still be alive if Zayn could’ve been there, to hold up a hand over Jesse’s mouth so he wouldn’t be a smart ass and yell out to idiot Tim from a few blocks over?

In his melancholy state, Zayn feels tears beginning to form.

“Why did you leave me behind?” he whispers to the empty room, to the little daisy and her sad leaves. “Why didn’t you take me with you?”

Just then, he’s overcome with it. It happens the same way it did earlier at the station. One second Zayn’s taking in the leaves of the wilting white daisy, his fingers skimming through the petals, and the next he’s on the floor.

In a daze, with his eyes still shut tight, Zayn realizes he’s fainted again. The exhaustion has caught up with him twice in one day, his eyes burn like they’ve been doused in battery acid, and his back aches from the rough fall. Somewhere above him, through the ringing in his ears, he can vaguely hear the movements of Harry bounding around Jesse’s room, packing up clothes and the music he says Zayn “desperately needs” in his life. Zayn tries to move, to get up, to _breathe_ so Harry won’t find him this way, but he can’t. Harry doesn’t call out for him, must not have heard Zayn’s fall, the _thud_ of a body hitting wood floor.

He tries to open his eyes, tries to move, tries to level his heart rate where it’s gone erratic and crazed. But it’s like his entire body, his brain, know to stay still, to give it a minute of Forced Shutdown before he tries to get up off the floor. It’s like he’s paralyzed from the neck down, as he shifts in and out of consciousness. _I hit my head._

And within the haze, behind his fluttering eyelids, Zayn sees the flicker of light.

_Silver._

_An empty lounger where Jesse should be._

_The Klein’s front door creeping open, a shaggy head of hair poking inside._

_Jesse._

_Jesse’s face, as close to Zayn’s as if they were sharing a secret next to their lockers, but miles away at the same time. Jesse, with his finger up to his lips. He’s telling Zayn to keep quiet, to keep still and don’t move. Be safe, be safe, be safe._

_Silver._

_Blurry silver, a bright light, a knife, swift, slicing through the air._

_Jesse._

_His hands waving over his chest, telling Zayn not to move._

He’s not sure how long it takes for him to fully come to, for his body to work again. But he lets out a groan and definitely doesn’t let out a cry, as he heaves himself onto his side, then on his hands and knees, and finally to his trembling feet. It wasn’t like the fainting spell from earlier in the day, it wasn’t a panic attack, not even close.

It almost felt like a vision.

_That can’t be good._

\---

 

_March 28, 2019  
12:09 am _

_I hit my head._

_I feel like Dorothy. Everything’s all black and white._

Zayn makes his way up the stairs as slowly as he can, his feet weighed down like there was lead in his boots, as he tries to take in the colors around him. He holds his hands up on either side of him, fingers skimming the raised wallpaper of the narrow staircase, to make sure he doesn’t fall backwards or on his head again. He’s not sure he can take the blow.

Something had gone seriously wrong, somewhere inside of Zayn, to make him faint twice in one day. He can practically hear it on the lips of his captain: suddenly he’s the loose canon, the _what is happening to me?_ guy from the movies, who was bitten by a radioactive spider or vampire and can no longer see like a regular human being. It’s like he’s out of control, like something else inside his head has grabbed the reins to propel him out into the world.

He’s starting to lose his mental capabilities and can barely grasp his center of gravity. It even feels like he’s lost the handle over his major bodily functions: endocrine system, nervous system, lung capacity.

There he is swaying his way up the stairs of the house his best friend died in, to go help his new boyfriend pack up his shit to move in with him, and he can’t tell what color the walls are. It’s just black. It’s all black and white, since he hit his head.

_Keep it together, Zayn. Don’t let him see it. Don’t let him worry. You have a case to solve. You have a man after you. Handle your shit._

When he steps into Harry’s room, it’s like a tornado hit it. Clothes on the floor, the closet bursting open, drawers haphazardly closed. There are two large suitcases flipped open on the bed and a medium-sized duffle bag on the floor. Harry goes through a few drawers for various articles of clothing; he pulls out a guitar from under the bed; and the record player and records have already been packed up together. Zayn watches Harry methodically work his way around the room, piece by piece, from the hall. Harry hasn’t noticed him yet, even when Zayn has to grab the door frame to catch his balance. _I’m going to have to help him get this down to the car. And I can barely stand up._

Like he can read Zayn’s fucked up mind, in about three seconds, Harry is there in front of him to pull him to the bed. He shifts the suitcases, pushes Zayn to lay down, as he asks if Zayn’s okay, if he needs some water, what happened, what’s wrong. _You’re so good at this, how are you so good at this_ , Zayn thinks, as he runs a fingernail over the moon scar on Harry’s hand. Harry rests it against Zayn’s forehead and Zayn sort of wants to keep it there forever.

It takes about five full minutes for Zayn to convince Harry that he’s just exhausted after a long day of hard work. And it takes about five minutes more for Zayn to realize that Harry’s just as exhausted. Bags under his eyes, the bruise still healing there alongside the shadows. His fingernails bitten raw, dirty hair, a pallid color to his face.

“Are you good?” Zayn finally asks in a quiet voice, his aching head resting on Harry’s pillow.

Harry hovers over him, puts his hand up to Zayn’s forehead once more, and frowns.

“I hate it here,” Harry admits. “I used to love my house and now I hate it. I hope it burns to the ground.”

They share a kiss then, when Zayn reaches for it. It’s a quick one, a comforting sort of kiss for the both of them. Zayn, to prove that he’s okay, and Harry, to accept the small bit of comfort.

Harry then says he’ll hurry as he makes his way around his room some more. Zayn lounges on the bed even with his boots on and tries to act normal. Casual. Nothing to see here. They both know he needs to rest his limbs, to come down from whatever high his mind has kept him at. Harry rambles a bit, goes on and on about his music and how he can’t wait to start recording in a few weeks. The band they opened for said they should, so all of the members were going to scrounge some money together for studio time. Zayn’s not sure how Harry will _ever_ afford his portion of the cost, but he doesn’t say so. Then Harry goes over the plan for the night: get everything in to the car, have a quick bite to eat at “home,” and then go to sleep. “Really sleep, Zayn. I swear to god, I will knock you out myself if I have to,” he said as he eyed Zayn, with his hands on his hips inside the closet.

Zayn smiled at that, his eyes now closed and hands crossed over his chest, because Harry has proved from day one that he can get intense. Especially in or around this house.

At one point Harry mentions his father and how he’d die “a second time” if he could see Harry now: packing up his belongings to get out of a house where two separate people were murdered. That had Zayn opening his eyes, to share in the moment of honesty. Harry’s dad died when he was fifteen. His mom remarried a few years later and it’s still a sore subject. “He still feels like a stranger, you know? This new guy Jeffrey, I mean. He’s not… it’s not the same.”

“I can understand that,” Zayn says quietly, finally moving up and off the bed. His head doesn’t feel as heavy, he’s found a bit of clarity now that he’s had the time to shut his body down for a few minutes. He goes to Harry where he leans against the wall near his record player, his lip between his fingers.

“Yeah?”

“People used to say I’d find a best friend again eventually, once Jesse had been dead a few months.”

Harry inhales a sharp breath, but nods for Zayn to continue.

“But it was never the same. Anyone I tried to befriend in that way… the way it was with Jesse, never felt the same.”

Harry grips the back of Zayn’s neck and kisses him again. They then sit to fold a bit of laundry, as Zayn leads into a few stories about the bedroom itself, how Jesse used to wreak havoc wherever he went, but especially the second floor of his own house. He’d pull pranks on his mom by hiding in the hall closet for an hour while they all searched for him; he kept three frogs inside his underwear drawer for a whole month before anyone noticed; and he always bragged about jerkin it to posters of the hot girls he tacked to the ceiling.

Zayn catches himself as he tucks a few pairs of socks into the duffle bag: wide eyes, idiot grin. He even glances towards the ceiling, to see if he can tell where the little holes were from Jesse’s tacks.“I like when you talk about him,” Harry says with a small smile of his own. “It makes you smile.”

Zayn blushes and nods. He’s pretty much blushed because of Jesse since he was twelve years old. It’s no surprise. He also realizes in that moment that he never openly talked about Jesse, not for years and years. It’s nice to talk about him now, in his room, where he feels so close.

And boy is he: Jesse fucks with the front of Zayn’s shirt, so he swats him away with a chuckle. _Yeah, yeah, I know._

An hour later, it’s almost all packed up. After a detour or two, to talk about Jesse a bit more and some of Harry’s old friends, all there is left to do is take it down to the car. Zayn remembers his plan to scout the place, so he glances out of the wide-open uncovered window that looks out into the backyard, schools his face to be Detective Malik serious. No strangers there, no men with flowers. Nothing.

Across the yard, another house stands as big and looming as the Klein house. It too has a few windows uncovered on the second floor. If Zayn squints, he can even seen into their master bathroom. If someone had been taking a shower, he’d make out the steam on the mirror.

“I hate windows like this,” he mumbles, mostly to himself, shaking his head. “Should have blinds on them. Anyone could see in.”

Harry sidles up next to him and tilts his head.

“I guess.”

Zayn knows it’s because Harry most definitely needs glasses and can’t see that far away. He can’t see the mirror in the far away bathroom, but he won’t admit it. Zayn can see everything.

“If we can see out,” he gestures to the house and the two people walking around in one of the bedrooms, “they can see in. Windows should be covered.”

“What, so everyone can keep their houses shut off and enclosed like yours?” Harry quirks an eyebrow, turning towards Zayn.

“Maybe,” Zayn grins, swatting at Harry’s stomach. “Maybe everyone should be like me. Shut off and enclosed, hmmm?”

Harry grins. He shifts them so that he’s the one closest to the window and Zayn is behind him to hold onto his slender hips. The stay like that, tucked together to look out the second-story window to the neighborhood at large. Zayn kisses Harry’s neck along his pulse point and exhales. Harry makes everything better. He doesn’t feel so crazed or tired or upset. He even pretends like he never fainted, like he could see colors again, even though it’s still just blacks and greys.

At some point, and Zayn’s not entirely sure when, he feels Harry press back against him a bit more firmly. It’s slow at first, not obvious, but it’s there. Harry presses his ass against Zayn’s crotch and moves his hips just so. Tilts his head back to lean on Zayn’s shoulder. Grins again.

“What are you up to?” Zayn wonders, fingers holding Harry’s hips tighter.

“Maybe… we could give the neighbors a little show. Could be fun.”

Zayn stills at that, his entire body halting. He almost forgot where he was, the room he was currently standing in.

_Jesse’s room, this is Jesse’s room. This is the place I had my first crush and where Jesse installed his lock and hugged me that one time. It’s his space, it’s not… somewhere I can fuck around with someone new. It’s hollowed ground._

_I pulled my gun on a young kid earlier. I ruined the show. I fainted again. I can’t solve this murder and there’s a man after me, a man slinking in the shadows, hiding. He hasn’t shown himself again._

_I don’t deserve this. I don’t deserve this at all._

Empirically, he knows it’s just another Harry distraction. It’s Harry using their time wisely, to not focus on the negative or the case or the fact that they have about eighteen trips to make back and forth to the car. It’s Harry trying to find a bit of lightness, after such a heavy conversation. A heavy night at the show, fucked up and insane. Harry’s worried about him, fucking terrified if the jump to his pulse is anything to go by. But he’s trying. He wants Zayn and Zayn always wants Harry.

Harry doesn’t move, keeps completely still, as Zayn runs it over and over in his mind. He must know Zayn can’t decide what to do, if after the night’s events he can handle this. If they even should, in Jesse’s room.

Zayn loves that about Harry, how he can read a room, can read Zayn, so easily. He sees a flicker of the liar he talked to those first few days, when Harry had both a smirk and an arm squeeze, tossed them out like confetti any time Zayn was near. _This can’t be right_ , Zayn thinks, as his eyes slam shut, his cock starting to take interest in his briefs despite himself. Harry’s right there, so close and warm and caring. It would be so easy to have a bit of fun.

_Fun._

Zayn opens his eyes and focuses on Harry’s hips between his palms. Harry, beautiful Harry, _my Harry_ , who just wants to distract Zayn the same way Zayn can distract Harry when it’s most needed.

_It could be fun._

The words come to him, from Jesse’s funeral, the words he swore were bullshit by a bullshit priest.

_Jesse wanted us to be happy. Let’s not forget that. He was a boy who only wanted to bring joy, to witness joy, to see those around him laugh and have fun. He wanted us to fly. So when we have the chance to find joy, to embrace fun, to laugh… let us remember Jesse Klein._

Harry shifts again, unsure, away from Zayn’s rigid body. He must hate himself for coming up with the idea, his head tilted down like he’s embarrassed. But Zayn keeps him close, pulls him flush against his chest like it’s important.

“A show, huh?” Zayn whispers with a small smile, to make sure Harry knows it’s okay. “You wanna show off?”

Belatedly, surprised, Harry nods.

So Zayn does what he knows and makes Harry feel good. He goes for his belt and zipper, undoes them from his position behind Harry, as Harry inhales a sharp breath. Fast as anything, Zayn snakes a hand down into Harry’s black boxers and jerks him off fast and hard.

It sounds as delicious as ever, the way Harry proclaims his own pleasure to the world. He’s not loud, doesn’t yell out, but he’s not quiet either. He _ah ah ahs_ every so often, especially when Zayn bites down on the tendon between his neck and shoulder. He likes to be bitten, likes the feeling of Zayn’s teeth sunken into delicate skin.

_Maybe this is my favorite part: getting you off before ever even thinking about me._

Once Harry’s come in his hand, his entire body shaking as he tries to hold himself up at the window, Zayn rubs off on his ass. Harry grabs the window frame and pushes back, gives Zayn some leverage, as he convulses and shakes from the force of his orgasm.

They eventually come down enough for Zayn to collapse back on the bed without stumbling or falling to the floor. The encounter was probably too much for his delicate sensibilities at the moment. But then Harry crawls over his body and settles his face in his neck, and Zayn doesn’t think it was too big of a mistake.

He scratches at the back of Harry’s head and closes his eyes, to block out the black and white around him. He wants to see color, experience the red of Harry’s mouth, the green of his eyes. He needs to get his shit together. _This can’t be good._

“You think they liked it?” Harry asks, his voice muffled in Zayn’s hair.

“Hmmm?”

“The neighbors.”

Zayn snorts, having forgotten that little tidbit before they both came in their underwear. Which has gone tacky and has Zayn cringing at the thought of having to move bags down to his car when messy. He’ll have to borrow some boxers first.

“Maybe we could do that at home some time,” Harry smirks like a dumbass. He moves off of Zayn to leer down at him, his eyebrows wagging, as he pumps his hips to hump Zayn like a fucking dog.

_Home._

Zayn swats at him, is sure that Jesse is laughing somewhere.

“The guy that lives on your block could use a little show,” Harry smirks some more. “Seems lonely.”

Zayn snorts again and swats at Harry until he’s the one on top, a leg shoved between Harry’s there in Jesse’s old bedroom. _It was fun, I’ll give it to him. Thanks J._ He pictures his best friend and how they’d tell each other this kind of shit now, how they’d text or call or meet up for drinks every Saturday night to talk about their conquests. Maybe Jesse would’ve been married by now. He might’ve even had kids, little Jesse Jr. or some unique, weird name for a girl.

Maybe they would’ve finally fessed up to each other: Zayn by telling Jesse he was bisexual, and Jesse by admitting he knew that all along.

Zayn can barely hold himself up, as his arms start to shake like he’d lifted about three hundred pounds earlier in the day. Harry notices immediately and tries to get Zayn to move off of him, says they should go home, that it’s ridiculously late. They need to sleep.

But Zayn realizes something, a nagging thought suddenly comes to the forefront.

_Home._

_Neighbor._

He opens his eyes and props himself back up again, their faces a few inches apart there on the bed. Harry stares at him with unsure eyes.

“What neighbor?” Zayn asks, his voice heavy and weighted.

“What – ”

“When did you talk to my neighbor? Which one? When?” Zayn asks with more urgency to his voice, his arms shaking harder than ever.

Harry tries to move them again, but Zayn refuses. He doesn’t budge. Even if his head is about to split open and he has visions coming to him and his eyes are grey and the world doesn’t make sense anymore, this needs to be answered. He has to know.

It must be important.

Harry shrugs, confused, and says, “When I was waiting on the steps yesterday for you to get home. I met a neighbor. He goes on walks a lot, I’ve seen him a few times around town. He just said hello.”

Zayn stares Harry down. There’s something there underneath the surface, like a current of blood beneath the skin _. Sausage links. All we are. Sausage links and nothing more._

Somewhere, Jesse makes a loud noise. It booms throughout the house, Zayn feels it like a punch to the stomach. It was like when they were little, when Jesse used to climb up onto the kitchen counter, his sticky feet all over the chipped yellow laminate, to reach for hidden food on the top shelf. It was the sound he made when he’d excitedly jump down to the floor, his feet slamming into the wood like a bomb blast, to share his Pop-Tarts with Zayn. Or maybe he shut a door too fast somewhere on the main floor. Maybe he snapped a kitchen cabinet so hard, the hinges broke. It could be anything, anything Jesse could get in trouble doing, that’s probably it. Jesse was always in trouble.

Zayn doesn’t remember shutting his eyes or muttering to himself, but Harry’s hands on his face say it must’ve been a few seconds at least. Harry knows. Harry must know what it means, how Zayn’s face went completely slack.

_Harry Styles, my anchor, Harry Harry Harry Harry, I want him I want him I want him, all I can see is Harry Harry Harry Harry._

“No one is here,” Harry whispers, kissing Zayn’s damp cheeks as he continues to clamp his eyes shut and mutter to himself. “No noises, no strangers.”

_Jesse Jesse Jesse Jesse._

“No noises,” Harry repeats, finally moving Zayn to lay next to him on the bed and relax every muscle in his body. “No noise, no one here. It’s quiet. It’s quiet.”

And finally, for maybe the first time since he was thirteen, Zayn believes it.

 

\---

 

_March 28, 2019  
4:39 am _

Zayn Malik doesn’t sleep. He never has and he never will.

Harry dropped off immediately after they crawled into bed a few hours ago, his eyes peaceful and gleaming as he kissed Zayn a final time. Their bellies were full of peanut butter toast, Zayn even had three huge glasses of water to supplement his poor organs, finally.

But he doesn’t sleep. He can never sleep. That’s always been his problem. It’s only an hour or so, here and there, Ambien be damned. There’s no fixing it, no cure, no magical potion that will somehow knock him out enough to forget his past or the things he couldn’t change. _The things I didn’t do._

So he tries his best, with every ounce of strength in him, to keep his cool and not pace the entire duplex. He knows he has to wait until a reasonable hour to call CJ. To get things in motion.

But finally he can’t take it anymore. Zayn sneaks out of the bed and down the darkened, silent hallway to get his phone on the kitchen table. He glances around and knows there couldn’t possibly be any flowers or a strange man perched on his couch, but he checks. He always checks now. He slinks in the shadows of his own goddamn house, to look near the front door, out the front window, along the alley out back. Nothing.

At long last, once he thinks it’s close enough to sunrise, he dials.

CJ picks up after two rings, his voice groggy and delirious.

“Lowell,” he grunts, probably sitting straight up in bed to listen carefully. He’s good like that, ready to listen whenever called upon. He’s not like Zayn who just lounges in his bed and barely comprehends his instructions. CJ is always on alert.

Zayn inhales and sits on his couch, head in his hands.

“Hey Ceej.”

“What’s happening? What happened?” CJ rushes out, movements on the other end of the line indicating he’s putting his jeans on.

“Nothing. No, relax.”

“What?”

Zayn inhales a second time, to steady his heart rate and shake something back into place, whatever has shifted inside him. Whatever has made his brain start to play tricks on him.“We need to look into my neighbors,” he tells his partner. “All of them.”

  
 


	6. DAY 10

**DAY 10**

 

_March 28, 2019  
8:05 am _

Sometimes Zayn has out-of-body experiences. Or disassociates, maybe. It’s like he imagines himself floating up and over his own body, watches himself make menial decisions about what to wear or what kind of coffee to order. He becomes the viewing audience of his pathetic little life, no longer an active participant or the one driving the car, so to speak. He just observes. Gives up control.

That’s how he feels as he sits at the kitchen table with a cooling mug between his palms, the thunder and lightning of a spring storm rocking the entire building of connected condos. It’s like his mind floats over near the couch, watches sad Detective Malik hunch over the coffee to stare into it like it has answers.

That morning, careful to be extra quiet so he wouldn’t wake Harry up, he retrieved some clothes from the closet. He grabbed a pair of black jeans, a sweater, and his good, sturdy boots before gently shutting his bedroom door behind him. Then he showered and dressed in front of the mirror. _I can’t dress up like a detective today, because I can’t even fake it anymore. I’m barely hanging onto my job by a thread._

Then he made coffee. He always makes coffee. There has to be coffee in his system so that he can function at half capacity. Especially after a night of zero sleep, it’s necessary. He’ll even get a double Americano on his way to work, as extra insurance.

He just has to wait for Harry to wake up. He can’t leave for the station, can’t join CJ to look over the notes he’s already made about Lexi’s husband, until he tells Harry where he’s going. And what needs to happen that day.

_I am going to the station. You cannot leave this house. I won’t let you. Do not fight me on this. If it’s one of my neighbors, he’s too fucking close and you can’t let him in. When I’m ready, I will come get you and you will tell me which neighbor you talked to, where he lives, and what exactly he said to you. No ifs, ands, or buts._

That’ll surely go over splendidly.

He watches himself lean down onto his mug, to rest his front teeth on the edge of it. He watches his feet bounce on the floor, the sweat along his hairline, the wrinkle in the back center of his grey sweater. Ghost Zayn, from across the room, gets a good, long look at Zayn Malik the person. And it’s not a pretty sight.

A green tinge to his bruised face, sunken eyes, skin and bones.

Finally, about fifteen minutes later, he can hear Harry begin to move around in the bedroom. It’s the telltale sounds of someone searching the floor for a pair of boxers, a toe accidentally hitting a bedpost, the hushed _shit cunt mother fucker_ called out in pain. Zayn comes back to himself as he begins to smile at that, he can’t help it, at how clumsy Harry seems to be. His brain and his body meld back together and suddenly he has feeling again in his fingers and toes. He even can see some color in the room, if he squints.

When Harry walks into the kitchen in just the pair of boxers, the palm of his hand rubbing at the bruise under his eye, he stops in his tracks.

“You’re still here,” Harry says.

“Yeah.”

“I figured if you woke up early, you’d head right in.”

Zayn sniffs and leans up from his coffee to shake his head. He doesn’t comment on the “woke up” part of that sentence because he can’t even admit to himself that he’s running on fumes. No sleep, not a bit, nothing, just adrenaline and caffeine. He couldn’t exactly rely on his old go-tos: fuck Lexi against the front door, take an Ambien, or try to lay down in bed to see if sleep comes to him naturally. None of those could work, not any more.

After all, they had lugged in bags and boxes the night before, right before the rain started, and now all of Harry’s stuff sits in the living room. Harry passed out almost immediately after his head hit the pillow. Zayn couldn’t wait around for Lexi, or try a pill. He just paced and peeked out through the windows towards his street, over and over. That’s how the rest of his night and morning went.

“I wanted to talk to you first,” Zayn says as he moves up to pour more coffee.

Harry doesn’t respond right away, which means he’s already started to assess the shit show of a conversation they’re about to have. Maybe he noticed the bags under Zayn’s eyes and has come to the correct understanding: he never actually went to bed.

“Okay…” he eventually says in a low voice, plopping himself down in the chair opposite of Zayn’s. “Talk, then.”

Zayn rejoins him at the table, slides a second mug over towards Harry’s left hand, and frowns down at his forearms. It’s too quiet, the whole case is too quiet. It’s a thought that he can’t get rid of, the longer it’s been without roses or a map piece. And it doesn’t help that Harry just sits there and stares at him, waits for the bomb to drop, whatever it was that made Zayn stay back from the station.

A gust of wind knocks a rather large twig against the backdoor, which has Harry jumping clean out of his skin.

_I know the feeling._

Zayn’s old friend paranoia comes crawling up his back, its nails dig in deep, and Zayn wants nothing more in that moment than to run to the front windows and stare out at anyone passing by. _Is it you? Are you here for me? Where do you live? You talked to Harry._

But Zayn shakes his head and focuses.

“The neighbor that talked to you. Did he say what his name was?”

Harry gets it then, he probably understood even as they drove home from the Klein house, that whatever happened out on those steps the day before had to be important. That Zayn would need to know all the details.

But Harry shakes his head with a frown, disappointed in himself.

“No. He didn’t say his name or where he lived, either.”

Zayn expected as much. Harry would’ve offered the detail before now, he’s sure of it.

“If I find a picture of him, could you identify him?”

“Probably, yeah. Yes.”

“Okay good,” Zayn mumbles, the pull too strong to go look outside. He quickly removes himself from the table, stumbles slightly from trying to move too fast, and sneaks an eye between the dark curtains covering his front windows. All he sees is an empty street, not the old people who like to run together some mornings. No one walking a dog, or pushing a baby in a stroller, the storm keeping everyone locked up tight. Not even a car drives by for the two minutes Zayn stands there to watch. To assess. To pick apart his block like a crime scene, like he’s been doing since the beginning.

When he turns back around, hand twitching for a cigarette, Harry has moved into the living room to the couch. He sits there surrounded by all of his stuff, his clothes and music and guitar. He just stares at it, at the things he was able to pack and move at a moment’s notice. To a stranger’s house who does nothing but pace and stare outside. To the house where a stalker knows he could be at any given time, who now talked to him out on the steps of said house.

Zayn should comfort him, should apologize again. He should say something. But all he can do is focus his feet and his legs on keeping him upright. _Stay still, don’t sway, don’t fall._

When Harry looks up, he slaps a smile on his face. He begins to ask about breakfast, what they should eat together, how long they have before Zayn has to venture into the station for work. He moves to the kitchen and begins to pull out pots and pans, a stick of butter and carton of eggs. And for some reason it makes Zayn angry, to witness Harry acting like everything is fine, like the stalker wasn’t after them, like Harry wasn’t once again thrust into the middle of the fucking investigation.

How Harry can smile at a time like this, and joke about cooking in just his underwear, is beyond Zayn’s tiny bit of comprehension left. His hand twitches again for a cigarette, his jaw jumps, and then he too moves to the kitchen.

“Why aren’t you more freaked out,” Zayn asks in his low, lethal voice, without even phrasing it as a question. “You’re supposed to be scared.”

Harry stills at the stove, his back to Zayn, for only a few seconds. And then he’s back to whisking the eggs.

“Who said I’m not scared?”

“You’re acting like this,” Zayn scoffs, his hand flying towards Harry’s little breakfast show, gesturing to the table where Harry practically fell over his chair from just a little storm.

“I’m not going to let you pick a fight with me,” Harry responds, his voice removed and ordinary.

“I’m not.”

“Yes you are,” Harry turns towards him, his face blank and passive as always. Same as his voice, Harry is always so good at hiding his emotions when he needs to.

“No.”

“Yes,” Harry continues, angrier now. “You’re mad that I sat on your steps. You’re mad this asshole came to talk to me. You’re mad I didn’t tell you sooner, didn’t catch a name, didn’t get anything for you.”

Zayn grits his teeth, but doesn’t refute it.

“You’re mad at me,” Harry walks towards him, “for trying to put on a brave face. You’re mad.”

Zayn takes a step back.

But Harry keeps right on him, gets close, so close their noses almost touch. He smells like stale soap, faintly like the Klein house, but mostly like Zayn’ sheets. _Our sheets now. They’re our sheets._ Zayn almost falls backwards when it hits him.

“But you’re also scared,” Harry says quietly, not so heated. “You’re scared of him hurting me.”

Zayn nods. Resigned.

“Please don’t pick fights with me when you’re stressed. This can’t work if you get mad at me,” Harry finishes, his hands on Zayn’s shoulders. He kneads them a bit, kisses each of Zayn’s cheekbones, and then shifts away so Zayn can look him in the eye.

“Sorry,” Zayn mumbles.

Harry kisses the words right out of his mouth, anything else Zayn would say to apologize or make up for it. There aren’t any jokes to be shared at the moments, no quips or fun anecdotes. They need to be quiet, to settle together, since Zayn’s heart rate is dangerously high. Maybe Harry can tell, because he presses a palm to Zayn’s chest, right over the beating muscle meant to keep him alive and well.

It should make him calm. Harry usually keeps him calm. But it keeps thrumming, the beat of it off by a fraction of a second. Maybe it’ a murmur. Harry frowns as they stare at each other, because he knows. Zayn gets that itch to go look outside again, so he steps away and does.

A car drives down the block, slowly, as the rain pounds down harder than ever. He almost sneers at it, anyone too close to his home makes him upset, but he lets it go. Then it’s someone running to their car on the other side of the street. Whoever he is, why he needs to be there today, on this block seems a little odd. Zayn narrows his eyes.

“Babe,” Harry says from over his shoulder, arms crossed over his chest. “Babe, stop. You should go in.”

Zayn’s eye twitches. Harry is right. There’s so much to do, he’s been standing there like a fucking idiot for hours and now he’s done what he set out to do. Talk to Harry. Just one more thing…

“You…” he scrunches up his face, unsure of how to say it.

“I won’t go anywhere,” Harry says with a resigned quirk to his lip. “Cross my heart. I won’t leave this house until you’re home, or you say so. Swear.”

Zayn practically gallops across the room to grab Harry’s face. He smashes their lips together so forcefully, he hears a muffled laugh come from Harry’s throat.

It’s not funny. None of this is funny. But Zayn can’t help but chuckle as well, at his own gumption. He just kisses through it, a peck to each lip, his cupid’s bow, even down to his chin.

_Be safe, stay safe, please stay safe and be here when I get home. I need you here all the time, but especially when I get home. I can’t have it be an empty house anymore. Not after all we’ve been through, not after you’ve stayed here these few days. Stay stay stay stay._

It’s Harry’s turn to kiss Zayn, as he holds him around the middle and pulls them closer. He kisses Zayn’s cheek, his other cheek, and then down to his neck.

His muffled voice comes from just above Zayn’s collarbone, husky and used like he’d been screaming in his sleep.

“You’re gonna figure it out. I know you will. After everything, you have to.”

That right there is Harry finally showing a bit of fear, his voice trembling even as he tries to hide it. Zayn can tell because he’s starting to know Harry inside and out, all of the little bits that make a person up. His joy, his fear, his anger. It’s the way he needs to find distractions, why he insists Zayn take care of himself, his unbridled need to feel good whenever he can. He’s not a psycho or a murderer and Zayn sometimes finds it hard to comprehend how he ever could’ve thought otherwise. But Harry can also be selfish, harsh. He really can be devoid of empathy when he needs to be, can compartmentalize to the point of concern. But that’s just Harry. That’s who Zayn has chosen.

_Harry, my Harry, so lovely and imperfect and flawed._

Just then Zayn’s phone dings with a text, followed immediately by the ringer. Zayn steps away from Harry, frowns at having lost the sweet moment between them, to first answer the call coming in.

It’s Destiny’s mother.

Zayn holds up a finger to Harry and moves to the couch, to sit and discuss with his vic’s mother that no, he hasn’t found the killer. But that he’s very, very close. “I think we have a break coming in as we speak, ma’am. And I’ll call you as soon as I know anything.”

It’s a special kind of ache, the one that comes with speaking to the mother of a deceased person. And Destiny, practically a child at only nineteen, was missed by so many back home. That’s what Mrs. Ward reminds him of over and over, that she has an entire town waiting for news. They can’t be the type of place that sends off their young girls to the city, only to have them return in boxes.

When Zayn finally hangs up the phone, with his head in his hand, he realizes Harry went to warm up their coffee cups. He hands Zayn’s to him, tries to smile, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. Zayn accepts it and breathes, thankful he’s sitting down, after such a draining conversation. He tells Harry about Destiny’s mother, how defeated and broken she looked at the station that first day. And how every time since then, each phone call has become more insistent, stronger.

“Mothers are good like that,” Harry nods. “They may be shocked at first, but they always come through in the end. For their kids.”

Zayn is reminded of Harry’s dad being dead, of the step dad he currently has to deal with. So he squeezes Harry’s hand and sends up a silent thank you to Harry’s mother. She did a great job with him.

He then tells Harry that Destiny, Harry’s roommate and the girl he was lucky to know for those few months, will find justice. Destiny is the priority, even if it feels like all he can focus on is Harry.

Zayn’s phone buzzes again with another text to join the first one. He had almost forgotten. He lifts the phone up to his face, as close as he can without looking like he’s lost the plot. It’s just that his eyesight is still on the mend, he can’t see blues or greens yet. It’s all too fuzzy.

 

**CL: Don’t freak out. No one’s been hurt. But you need to come in.**

**CL: Come now.**

 

Zayn’s eyes widen as he glances up at Harry’s face.

_This is it. It’s time._

So without any further conversation, Zayn rushes to strap on his gun and throw on his black rain coat. He opens the front door, runs a shaky hand through his hair and makes sure he has his phone, right as Harry hands him a paper bag.

Lunch.

_Harry made me lunch while I was on the phone._

Zayn can’t really comprehend the gesture at the moment; he sways on his feet so he hides it by grabbing Harry’s hand and kissing his palm. Then he kisses Harry on the mouth, for the whole fucking world to see, for every fucking neighbor out there.

Harry must know because he presses into Zayn’s chest full force, still in just his underwear, and then swats at Zayn’s ass as he bolts down the stairs to his car.

 

\---

 

_March 28, 2019  
8:38 am _

Zayn knows immediately that something has happened. Something big has happened. He screeches into the parking lot and takes the length of it at a brisk run, a jog he didn’t think he could ever accomplish ever again. Right as he gets to the main front doors and steps inside soaking wet, CJ is there. Not at their desks, not in their conference room, but just inside the main lobby. It’s a small space, with a few folding chairs and the main check in desk where two officers are on duty at any given time of day. There are posters on the wall, with various phone numbers of various departments, for domestic abuse, child abuse, and sex trafficking. It’s not exactly the lobby of a nice business. It’s actually one of the most intimidating rooms in the station, which Zayn has thought many times as he’s seen various people come in asking to fill out restraining order forms. It’s not a comforting room.

CJ rounds on him immediately, his hands on his hips above his belt and gun. He looks as good as Zayn, which is to say, not at all good. He hasn’t shaved, his hair’s a mess, he even has a bit of crust around his eyelids, indicating lack of sleep or teary breakdowns. Maybe both.

“What is it?” Zayn rushes out, before CJ can get a word in. “What’s wrong?”

CJ holds his hand up, tries to placate Zayn before he even starts.

“Just… just know that I’ve already checked. We don’t – we don’t have a description of him and the tapes only show the back of a black hoodie.”

Zayn’s stomach drops so far down in his chest cavity, he practically feels it knock into his kidneys. _Here, he was here, he came here. He must’ve known I wasn’t in, so he came here._

“What happened?” Zayn says as he pinches his cheek to stay alert.

CJ doesn’t respond and instead jerks his head so Zayn will follow. Zayn passes the two officers at the front desk, their eyes to the floor, since they know they fucked up by not handling the situation properly. Zayn narrows his eyes, confused, until they make their way through the bullpen, weaving around desks, to approach their own.

When they’re a few yards away, Zayn gets it. He comprehends what’s happening here this morning, after a night he couldn’t sleep, the day after he pulled a gun on a young kid inside a club.

Roses. A massive, gigantic vase full of dark crimson roses.

The color that denotes grief and sorrow at funerals.

Zayn would know.

He stares at them as they walk closer, his feet a jumbled mess on the shitty tiled floor. He hears CJ speaking to him, can make out the shape of his profile as they walk, to give Zayn some back story. But it’s not until they’re standing next to Zayn’s desk that he hears a word, when CJ literally snaps his fingers in front of Zayn’s face.

“Hey,” he snaps again, to pull Zayn’s eyes up to meet his own.

“When?” Zayn mumbles.

CJ exhales, glad that Zayn could still speak under so much stress.

“Not even an hour ago, right after the shift change,” he says with a nod, hands back on his hips. “Lee and Chambers both say the same thing: a young man came to the front desk, said he had a flower delivery for Detective Malik, and that was it. He was gone in a flash, and all we have on the tapes is the back of his head. He had a hoodie on.”

Zayn blinks and takes the flowers in, since he’s gone days without so much as a glance at one. Ever since he stuffed the bouquets into a garbage can, ever since he told Harry how he fucking hated flowers anyway, he hasn’t had to do this. To stare at the gift some sociopath left for him.

And now he made himself known at the actual station. He’s ballsy, Zayn will give him that. To come to a fucking police station, to hand over a vase full of evidence, for the lead detective on a case.

He’s on the verge of a shutdown.

“The map,” he mumbles again, eyes in slits so he can try to make out the colors of the room around him. All he can see is red red red, the red of CJ’s tie, the roses, the blood on the floor, Jesse’s blood. He truly sees a pool of blood next to his own desk, for him to step in, and he has to pound a fist against his forehead to stop it.

“Last piece,” CJ says with concern in his voice, handing it over in a clear evidence bag. “Just… stay calm.”

Zayn doesn’t take the bag because he can’t hold anything. He couldn’t hold coffee, he left the lunch Harry made him in the car. _I hope it doesn’t go bad, I hope it didn’t need to be refrigerated_ , he thinks belated. So he juts his chin for CJ to smooth out the plastic and hold it up.

         **_For everything you’ve done._**  
                      **_All my love always,_**  
                      **_Harry_**

It has Zayn reeling all over again, he has to sit down on the desk before he faints right there in front of CJ and a half-full room of officers getting ready for their shift. He sent them as if they were from Harry, _my Harry_ , to cause pain. To make sure Zayn knew he was still watching the both of them, their sweet embraces and the few times they’ve laughed together. He might’ve watched them have sex or make dinner or shower together. He could’ve been outside the window every single time, because Zayn didn’t check enough. He didn’t keep his eye out on the street enough, which is fucking _ridiculous_. _Stupid_ , the way he’s failed on finding this guy. Neighbor or not, Zayn knew this guy was following his every move, taunting from just far enough away not to get caught.

_Idiot idiot idiot idiot._

Zayn slaps at his forehead, repeats the word in his head as he does so, until CJ reaches for him and grips him by the wrist to stop. Zayn’s breathing has gone erratic again, he can’t he can’t he can’t.

And that’s when it happens. The explosion. The bomb blast inside his chest that detonates from deep within.

Zayn begins to scream. He screams at CJ to let his hand go, screams at the roses themselves, screams to the officers up front. It’s not fair, it’s not right that this guy gets to come onto Zayn’s turf and show his fucking face. _His face!_ He stood there in Zayn’s lobby and said he had a delivery, as if that was something he could do without getting caught. _And he didn’t get caught! He got away again!_

Zayn calls out various expletives, his eyes bulging as he starts to pace near his desk. “Bullshit!” he yells loudest of all, at the ridiculousness of the entire fucking case. A stalker! Zayn has a fucking stalker! How does that happen? Who leads this kind of fucking life? It’s insane!

CJ tries to quiet him down, he tries to shush him and pull him towards the conference room so it can at least be contained.

But Zayn can’t move. He can’t walk.

“ _Stop it_ , Ceej,” he explodes again, shoving his partner away. “I can’t, okay? I fucking _can’t!”_

“Okay, okay, okay,” CJ placates him quietly, hands up in the air in retreat. “Okay.”

“He was here,” Zayn hisses, as officers around him continue to stare. “He was fucking here, he sent these from Harry, he won’t leave Harry alone. He was here. He’s not even afraid to get caught!”

“I know.”

“What the fuck is happening?” Zayn cries out, grabbing at his own hair. He still can’t see any fucking color, it’s just black and white and red all over.

A few officers band together and make their way towards the detective desks. Zayn hangs his head, fully aware of his actions and what all the screaming would look like to their colleagues. But since CJ is so good at everything, the better detective in every way, he diffuses it. He asks everyone to give Zayn some space, some air, since he just got some upsetting news. “Nothing to see here, guys. All good. Go back to work.”

_They must all think I’m unstable. Quiet, reserved, tough guy Malik. The man who can’t solve a case in under forty eight anymore. The one they all warn each other about, the loose canon._

“Just… please relax,” CJ whispers, finally moving Zayn down to sit in his chair fully.

“I can’t,” Zayn mumbles, his chin hitting his chest as his body says otherwise. Full shutdown, his skeletal frame and major muscle groups take a breather. He hunches, curls, relaxes, since he physically can’t take it anymore.

“We’re gonna get him.”

“How?” Zayn mumbles, as thunder booms at them overhead.

“You just said he’s not afraid to get caught,” CJ placates him. “When a man doesn’t care if he gets caught, he gets sloppy. Careless. He’ll fuck up and we’ll find him.”

Zayn nods and breathes in through his nose and out through his mouth. His entire body has gone slack there in his chair, as if he really had fainted again. If any of the officers approached, they’d see a boneless, spineless Zayn Malik, about to slide off his chair and onto the floor like a pool of water.

He thinks that’s it for now. They have flowers and a map to look over. Another clue. Now they really can get a sketch going, since they have the dancers’ description, the bartenders vague memories, and now the officers up front. They can all band together and create a picture, something for them to pass out amongst their officers, to find the fucker who killed Destiny Houthakker. Poor Destiny, with her blue eyes and blonde hair, who just wanted to find a bit of adventure in a new place.

But CJ stalls all of that, when he says they need to finally fucking tell their sergeant and captain.

“It’s time, Zayn. We can’t keep holding this on our own. We can’t.”

Zayn nods down to his chest, his eyes still closed, because it’s true. They need to show the file to their superiors and figure out what to do. Zayn doesn’t say it out loud, because he knows CJ would freak, but he also knows he needs to remove himself from the case. It’s too close, too personal. He is the case now. He’s been the case since the beginning. He’ll probably be fired for withholding important information. He might even get an Obstruction of Justice charge brought against him, once Destiny’s family finds out what he did. What he didn’t do, when he was thirteen. How it all came back to haunt him.

CJ doesn’t have to know that part yet. Zayn can pretend to hold it together for a bit longer, as they lay it all out to Mulcahy and hope he doesn’t lose his fucking mind.

They need to lay out their case. They need to look at it from top to bottom, explain it away, and hope for the best.

They need to let it go.

 

\---

 

_March 28, 2019  
9:15 am _

In their private conference room, Zayn holds onto his files like a child holding onto their favorite toy. His entire demeanor says _don’t touch me, no you can’t have these, they’re mine._

But something in him has finally snapped, he thinks, because he can’t let his cases go. He knows somewhere buried in one of them is the clue to the entire case, the one thing he keeps overlooking and missing. Even as CJ tells him about the few neighbors he’s researched so far, Zayn holds them close. There are only six left. Six more cases to dissect to find the crack in the foundation.

It’s not Lexi’s husband. CJ slides over the driver’s license photo of Andrew Perry, where he stares at the camera with a dumb expression. He is certainly not the guy who showed himself at the bar. This kind of man couldn’t be the type to get revenge for his wife’s affair or fuck over the guy who did it. Too oblivious.

It’s also of course not the Harrisons from across the street and over three houses. The old couple that sometimes runs past Zayn’s front steps when he’s out having a smoke, the ones who never speak to him or even acknowledge his presence. They must not know he’s a cop. The husband, Cecil Harrison, is too old and too carefree to give a shit about Zayn Malik’s past.

“Those are the only ones I have so far,” CJ admits, his cheeks red. “Of your neighbors.”

“You’ve been here for like, an hour,” Zayn points out, to give his partner props for getting about four hours’ worth of work done in just one. _Sorry I wasn’t here to help._

CJ’s cheeks redden, because of course they do.

Zayn tries to breathe in and out, in through his nose and out through his mouth, to think straight. To _think, Zayn, come on. What next? What’s next? Where do we find him?_

And because CJ can read his fucking mind, he gently lifts the files from Zayn’s rigor mortised hands, before handing over the bag with the newest piece of the map.

“The final piece,” CJ says with a nod. “Go on.”

Zayn practically heaves himself up onto the table, to reach the other end where the other map pieces lay. They’ve all been cleared of fingerprints or any other traces of human contact, so they’re not bagged at the moment. And it goes against everything they were taught, to take the newest piece out of its bag, to line it up next to the others. But it’s like the partners don’t care, because Zayn doesn’t blink at it and CJ doesn’t comment.

Zayn shifts the pieces into place, with the notes front side up to begin with. None of the notes connect to each other in any way, just the sweet nothings the asshole has sent to Zayn as taunts. So CJ waves his hands for Zayn to get a move on, to flip them over to see the actual map side.

What they see at first is absolutely nothing. CJ even scoffs a bit, his hand slaps down on the table like he can’t believe it. It’s just… a map of Nebraska where it connects to Iowa, with large, loopy hand drawn hearts in thin red pen.

The only other thing they see is the bleed marks from the Sharpied words on the other sides. It’s just a fucking map.

“What the fuck?” CJ whispers to the room at large, looking up over Zayn’s head. Zayn knows he had been so sure that the final piece would give them something to go off of.

Zayn deflates as well, the longer he stares at the large pieces haphazardly pieced together. He thought the final note would have more to it. He figured there would be a large X to mark the spot, _come find me Zayn, here I am, I’m right here._

But it’s nothing.

_Nothing nothing nothing._

Zayn closes his eyes, so he won’t stare at the grey map in front of him. Because he still can’t see greens and blues.

 

\---

 

_March 28, 2019  
11:45 am _

He tries. He really, really tries. He tries to focus on the words of each file, he tries to hear CJ whenever he speaks about more of his neighbors. He admits that he has a lunch in the car, something Harry made him. But when CJ fetches it, and gets out a sandwich, yogurt, and cheese cubes, Zayn almost vomits at the sight of it.

It’s just that his mind has begun to wander. Truly wander, like he’s floating above his body again there in the conference room. He thinks about his mother, of what she’d say to him now. He was supposed to call her on Wednesday, he always calls her on Wednesdays. She didn’t even reach out to ask him why he hadn’t called, which is unlike her. She loves her Wednesday chats with her only child.

Maybe even she could tell how stressed he was. Maybe she knew. Mothers are so good like that.

_Maybe someday I’ll meet Harry’s mother. Maybe he’ll meet mine. Maybe eventually Destiny’s will stop calling me, since I don’t have any answers. Just a few pieces of a map, with nothing to tell me where to go or what to do. I should practice, actually: I’m so sorry ma’am, but we have to shelve this case for now. Insufficient evidence. Oh all of this evidence here in a box? Yeah, it’s just not enough because I can’t figure it out. My apologies._

CJ snaps his fingers in front of Zayn’s face to get him to pay attention. Zayn barely comes to, his entire body seized up like a tightly wound cord.

“Coffee?” he says, gesturing to the door.

Zayn exhales and nods.

“Always.”

When CJ leaves the room, Zayn realizes he has three files left on the table. Just three measly little files, that probably hold nothing of importance. None of the others did. The table, full of case photos from Destiny’s scene, Destiny’s haunted face staring up at the camera, the map pieces in the center. _It’s all right here. I should know by now._

Jesse tugs on his ear, harshly and with a hissing noise. Zayn actually winces this time, it fucking hurt, as he shoves his body away from the table. _Fuck, J. Give it a rest._

But Jesse Klein always had a motive for the things he did. He rarely half assed an interaction. So he must need Zayn to pay attention, to motivate himself to find what’s there. It’s his standby for when one of the ghosts needs him to recognize or realize something. They get loud, abrasive, harsh in their movements.

Jesse pulls his ear again.

“Jesus Christ, Jesse,” Zayn hisses, hand up to his ear to rub at it.

But then his eyes fall down to the map pieces again and something tells him to pull them closer. To really look at them up close. Because hasn’t that been Zayn’s problem all along since this case started? The detective so sure of his abilities to pick things apart, to comprehend what others can, to fucking see what needs to be seen… has been off his game. His wires were somehow crossed, he focused too much on Harry, on the wrong suspect. He took Harry’s DNA, had him take a lie-detector, did everything possible to point a finger at Harry to say check this one.

And he never once paid attention to the details.

Six pieces of the puzzle. Six torn up pieces of one map. Their edges line up perfectly, no gaps, no tears. And in the very center, in the middle of the Missouri River, three pieces meet at one singular point. Like they’re pointing to each other.

A smiley face.

One map piece has a dot in the corner, another piece has a dot in the corner, and the newest piece features a curved line, just like Harry’s moon scar. Pen markings, small ones, little scribbles that don’t even register to the naked eye unless you saw them side-by-side to create a little face.

A smiley face in the very center of the Missouri River.

_The river. Why the river? What’s at the bottom of the river? Is it a place along the river? Somewhere I’ve been before?_

Zayn tilts his head and stares at the face from the side. It taunts him, just like the man from the bar. But the man from the bar was angry, livid, frowned the whole time. And this little face wants to smile.

_Come find me Zayn, here I am, I’m right here._

Suddenly it hits Zayn like a fucking mac truck. The bomb in his chest goes off, his lungs seize up, his tongue sticks to the roof of his mouth.

“Yes,” he manages to say out loud, despite the slow moving blood in his veins. Yes yes yes yes.

He moves up off his chair at lightening speed, a sudden second or third wind propelling him towards his files. His files, his cases, it was always about a case.

His first case. His very first case along the Missouri River. _Her name was Charlotte, by the way._ Zayn can see her plain as day: the blonde girl who OD’d next to the river, her hair caked into the mud, her eyes dead and cloudy.

_Her name was Charlotte._

CJ rouses him from the dreamlike state of euphoria, as he clambers back into the conference room with two huge Styrofoam cups of coffee. And CJ never drinks coffee. He needs it.

Zayn looks up at him with wide eyes and very nearly cries. He has it. It’s all right there.

“The river,” Zayn slaps a hand down onto the map pieces. “A face, see?”

CJ doesn’t understand at first, since there isn’t a face to see on the pieces. They were clear of anything besides the hearts and the words on the other side. But Zayn gestures wildly, his heart up in his throat, for Ceej to look closer. _See, right here._ He points and makes CJ comprehend what he means.

“The river,” CJ says slowly, like maybe his tongue has gotten stuck too. “The river? Why the river?”

“The river, CJ,” Zayn almost jumps up and down, flipping open the long ago file from his very first day as a lead detective.

“Did you used to go there, or…”

“No, no, it’s the river. The case by the river, remember?”

Maybe CJ does and maybe he doesn’t. But Zayn can’t give CJ any more of his attention at the moment because he needs to think. Really think it over, the case by the river and what happened there. _What did I see?_ The cogs in his head move a bit slowly, but they start to chug along. To get moving.

So he pictures it. He goes back there in his mind, shuts his eyes and everything, to remember before he reads his own writing. The memory comes to him, hazy at first, and then clear as a puddle.

He’s standing over the body of a dead girl along the Missouri River. He can smell the mud and grime like after a fresh rain, can hear the rushing water. He’s looking down at a young, blonde girl, OD’d in the dirt, with blue skin. He had to hold a fist to his mouth, which had Knight and everyone on the crew thinking he was going to be sick. But he didn’t feel sick at all, he felt elated. He felt like he was on top of the world, at finally finding his purpose in life. He looked at that poor dead girl and realized, _I can do this. I can fucking do this._

Then he’s not alone. He’s off to the side as they load up the girl, after her family came to ID her. He’s telling that girl’s family, as her brother cries all over him that she couldn't have died from drugs, it was impossible, someone hurt her, to look again. He's patting the brother's arm, apologizing for his loss, and says “now she can finally know peace.” He's thinking _maybe I'll know peace now too._

Zayn opens his eyes to find CJ staring intently at him. He has his hand over the file on the table, won’t let CJ open it until he himself does. Because he gets it now. He finally gets it.

Her name was Charlotte.

Zayn grabs for her file and flips it open to the very first page. A picture of her stares at him, the stats and M.E.’s report right there next to it.

She has tattoos, the file notes. Knight even included pictures. A little heart up near her shoulder. A rose on her inner arm.

Charlotte.

Dead and buried now, finally revealing her secrets.

Zayn then goes for the file photos, the ones they compile on any case to get a read on someone. Even though he claimed it as an OD, he still reached out to find photos of her. He reaches for the photo of the family, of Charlotte when she was young and spry, not riddled by drugs, no track marks in her arms, no bruises around her neck.

And there next to her, with his arm around her, is the brother. The brother Zayn comforted, as he swore up and down that someone nefarious had hurt his sister. The brother who Zayn spoke with, touched, and consoled.

Zayn points his finger the guy’s face and looks up at CJ.

“Him. That’s him.”

The guy along the river.

The guy from the bar. He’s the one who smiled at Zayn a few times, smiled right in his face, tried to chat. And then he almost knocked him over for kissing Harry.

Another cog slides into place, a dumbfounded expression comes over him, as Zayn even vaguely remembers seeing him at the fucking crime scene itself, over near the police tape, looking on. He was there watching Zayn react: the vomit in the grass, the way he couldn’t keep his head up. He wanted to see Zayn crack and he fucking did.

It’s him.

_I just never paid attention._

“Who is it?” CJ asks with a sparkle in his eye, at finally finding the break the needed. But Zayn doesn’t answer right away, so he says cautiously, “Zayn, you’re not blinking.”

Zayn shakes his head to make sure his sentences come out clear and concise. He can’t fuck the explanation up because he needs CJ to understand. He needs to tell CJ so that they can go tell their captain: we solved it, this is the man to look for, put out a call for his immediate arrest. Armed and dangerous.

“The brother,” Zayn says with a measured voice. “Her brother, I met her brother. I called it on the scene, it looked so obvious: an overdose. But he… he pulled at my arm and said that she had been hurt. She… someone hurt her. That’s what he said. He begged me. And I… I just didn’t listen, I was so preoccupied with myself.”

All Zayn focused on that day was himself. He didn’t hear anything Knight said, didn’t listen to the brother, because it was about his journey, his triumph, his direction in life.

They lock eyes and CJ knows Zayn needs the help, that he’s frozen. He nods and reaches for the file to flip through it. His hands are faster, he can speed read when Zayn can barely remember the alphabet. His eyes roam over the reports, the notes Zayn made, and nods along like he agrees that it makes sense. Zayn catches a glimpse of a piece of paper from the first page of his first folio, how he had written _JESSE_ in one of the margins. Because the boy reminded him of Jesse. They always remind him of Jesse, when they’re cute and brunette. He’s always said he sees Jesse everywhere. Maybe he really does.

“Louis William Tomlinson,” CJ reads off the name from the family list. “Name’s Louis Tomlinson. Age twenty-nine.”

_Louis Tomlinson Louis Tomlinson Louis Tomlinson._

It’s there, it’s right there in front of their faces. Finally. CJ was right, it was always about a case and it was because of an instance when Zayn didn’t pay close enough attention to detail. It was because of Zayn that Destiny was murdered, because this asshole decided to take the law into his own hands.

They need to act fast. And Zayn’s tired of playing second position to his fucking junior detective, who has done all of the work and hasn’t gotten any reward for it. It’s time for Zayn to step up, to be the lead, and figure it the fuck out.

“You did good, Ceej,” Zayn says as he claps his partner on the shoulder and takes the file from him. “Let’s get to work.”

CJ nods and his face flushes again, because of course it does.

 

\---

 

_March 28, 2019  
12:07 pm _

This is what Zayn knows. This is the job he signed up for.

Someone dies, they name a suspect, and get to work.

Get as much info as possible: run the suspect’s name in the database, find his address and place of employment, put out an APB for the vehicle he drives. Then take his picture to the witnesses to see if the faces match up. Make the case.

CJ volunteers to drive a cruiser to the strip club, will call ahead to make sure the girls are there and ready for him, and not to worry, he’s on it. Zayn waves him off and then types away at his computer like a mad man, to find out anything and everything he can on Louis William Tomlinson, age twenty nine.

His name lights up the whole fucking screen.

There are numerous reports to click through, but it’s clear right away that Louis has quite the checkered past. He has been arrested numerous times in the last few years: drugs, illegal tampering with federal forms, battery, drugs again.

The most recent lists him as self employed, works from home as a “web developer” for various computer companies. Zayn scoffs at whoever typed the file out. Because “web developer?” You might as well say “hacker” and be done with it. They all know that’s hacker language. _Good god._

Another case file pops up, which is the most interesting of all. The year before, Tomlinson was accused of hacking citywide agencies, but was ultimately let off due to lack of evidence. An IT guy from the district attorney’s office called it to the police’s attention first, that someone had tried to hack into the system using an anonymous, intricate proxy server. But they couldn’t prove that it was Tomlinson, even though it reeked of his past hacking style, so they let him go.

 _Jesus fucking Christ_ , Zayn thinks as he leans back in his chair.

He fucking hacked into their files. That’s how he knew about Zayn all along, about his past. He must’ve hacked in to find out shit about Zayn, maybe to check his old cases or other missteps, and instead found a fucking red flag. Zayn Malik, friend of the deceased, to a murder in 2002. He probably read Jesse’s electronic file over and over again, probably had a fucking copy of it sitting in his house right then.

He’s probably been reading Destiny’s file each time they update it in the system.

_Fucked over by the paperwork. Wow, universe._

Zayn almost stands up to yell across the room, for his bosses to gather around his desk. That he’s finally figured it out. He has him. Even without CJ, without the eyewitness accounts from the club, Zayn could present the case to his captain and sarg. The pieces of the map, Charlotte’s file, the picture of the brother and how Zayn has seen him up close since Destiny’s death, and ages before.

He’d have to explain the Jesse side of things, which probably wouldn’t go over well and he may even be fired for obstruction of justice. But he had to. He had to officially connect himself to the case, to make sure they could bring this fucker down.

But then out of nowhere, in the midst of formulating the plan to find Louis Tomlinson, something on the most recent electronic case file catches Zayn’s eye. He’s drawn back in, glides back to his computer in his chair, and stares at the third line of the file up close.

First his name.

Then his age.

Then his address.

Because holy shit, Zayn was fucking right. The man, who was after him all this time, the one stalking him since day one, really is a neighbor. A fucking neighbor, just across the street. Zayn repeats the house number in his head a few times, practically choking on the realization: it’s the house Zayn always thought was an eyesore. The house directly opposite his that he’s inadvertently been staring at for months, years, every time he needed a cigarette or to wait for Lex.

The odd shaped grey house across the street, the one with the crooked shutters and overgrown rose beds. Louis Tomlinson lives in the house with the wild garden.

Roses upon roses in his yard, which Zayn has watched him tend to over the last two weeks.

It was right there all along, the roses that kept coming to Zayn. He had literally been staring at the very flowers that found their way to his doorstep and inside his house and station. Right fucking there.

The guy grew roses, for Zayn. But they were also the roses he must’ve cut and brought to Destiny at the club. They always thought the flowers weren’t delivered to her, and instead handed over personally. He grew his own roses and gave them to sweet Destiny Houthakker.

Zayn looks up to the huge vase left on his desk, with the dark crimson roses that have just begun to bloom with wide wilting petals, and he feels the bile rising in his throat. These roses, a special kind, cut from the garden Zayn could see from him living room, stare at him like a snake in the grass: waiting, mocking, _I’m gonna get you._ He then looks down at his desk, where the cut gardener’s twine fell from CJ’s hand earlier when he removed the last piece of Louis’s map.

Louis William Tomlinson.

Zayn’s neighbor, the man he’s barely glanced over, and he never noticed. He never, ever noticed. Now that Zayn has opened his eyes and registered the guy’s face, now that he’s fully remembered him, he can’t fucking believe he didn’t notice. They must’ve crossed paths of course, passed on the street… but Zayn never paid attention to the face. Again. All he saw was a the blank face of a young man who looked like an adult Jesse, when really it was the young man from his first case who sometimes drove an old Lexus down the block. The guy who would every so often tend to his garden, out in broad daylight for Zayn to witness, was the brother of his first vic.

And it hits him then: Louis is angry. He’s beyond angry. He’s so angry at Zayn for not looking into his sister’s case. He’s angry for being ignored. He’s been fucking with Zayn as payback. He killed a girl in Jesse’s old house, an eye for an eye, taunted him to figure it out, to use his brain, and Zayn never could. It’s been almost two fucking weeks.

He must be desperate. The flowers and the map didn’t work; in his eyes, Zayn still hasn’t figured it out. Zayn the moron just kept entering shit into Destiny’s file, without any explanation or hard theories, and didn’t include anything about the roses or map pieces. Louis must’ve gotten even angrier as the days went on. So he tried to flirt with Zayn, twice. He showed his true self at the bar that night he hit Zayn, to let Zayn _see_ his anger, and then… he introduced himself to Harry.

Harry.

_My Harry._

Harry said the lonely neighbor on his block seemed nice.

_Harry Harry Harry Harry._

Louis knows about Harry, he approached Harry, he weaseled his way in to talk to Harry.

He sent flowers to the station, to toy with Zayn _about_ Harry. To make sure Zayn hadn’t forgotten: _I know where you are, I know about your boyfriend, and I’m not fucking happy about it._

But Zayn gets it then, that the roses sitting on his desk were on purpose. He made sure to mention Harry’s name on the map piece, so that Zayn would spiral and understand that they were “sent” from Harry. Maybe he figured Zayn would freak the fuck out right there in the pit, which he actually did. He fucking lost his mind in front of everyone. Frustrated. Defeated. Alone.

_“All my love always, Harry.”_

The smiley face was a taunt.

The whole game was a taunt.

The flowers “came” from Harry, which means…

He has Harry.

_He has Harry._

Zayn almost throws up, his entire insides twist up like a vice grip. He’s sure the cops around his desk see his eyes begin to roll back, like he’s about to faint.

And maybe he does there in his chair, his body limp and lifeless. Because he opens his eyes, blinks about twenty times, and sees his sergeant coming towards him, concerned.

They’re worried. They think he’s lost it. Someone must’ve told Mulcahy about his freak out right as he walked in for the day. He probably wants Zayn to take a leave of absence, talk it out with the psychologist they keep on retainer, get some “rest.”

But that can’t happen, Zayn can rest or keep composed or even waste time talking with his boss. Because he gets feelings sometimes, it overcomes him and he swears he can tell the day by the mere air molecules around him. And he knows in his fucking gut, that something is wrong with Harry. Something is seriously, seriously wrong.

So he hurries to grab his jacket, phone, and keys, and huffs a breath to try and catch it. He can’t shut down, he can’t lose his balance. He has to run.

_He wants me to come find Harry._

He runs straight past Mulcahy and a few other officers calling his name, sprints out the front door, and flies to his car.

_Jesse wanted us to fly._

Once he’s speeding down Dodge, the light on the top of his car for emergencies, he calls Harry.

But he doesn’t answer.

 

\---

 

_March 28, 2019  
12:30 pm _

One of the curtains has been ripped from the rod.

A chair in the kitchen is overturned.

There’s broken glass near the couch.

His living room has all the makings of a recent violent altercation.

These are the things Zayn knows.

He’s not sure what he expected when his car came to a screeching halt at the curb. Maybe he hoped he’d look to his left at the shitty grey house with its shitty garden, and see Louis William Tomlinson smiling at him from a window, the rain obscuring him somewhat. Maybe he thought he’d find Louis perched on Zayn’s own front steps, _you finally figured it out, you moron_. Or maybe worst of all, he envisioned himself bursting through his front door, to see Louis and Harry hanging out on the couch like old friends.

Harry is a friendly person and maybe he wouldn’t assume this nice, polite neighbor who has gone to see his shows could possibly be a murdering sociopath.

But none of those seem to be the case, it’s not the timeline Zayn finds himself in. He spins around in his living room, a hand to his forehead, as he realizes what must’ve happened. As he realizes his instinct at the station was correct.

Harry, too trusting, probably opened the front door when someone graciously knocked only a few minutes after Zayn left. Maybe he thought it was Zayn himself, coming back home after all, too upset to be at the station. Maybe Louis introduced himself for real, tried to get into the house. Maybe Harry let him.

Something must’ve been said to finally tip Harry off, to either run or get to the phone to call the cops. Louis couldn’t let that happen, not after he just delivered flowers to Zayn and wanted that to sink in a bit. They fought. They fought hard, just like the night Zayn and Harry did in the exact same place.

_I hope he didn’t hit you too hard. I don’t want to find you with more bruises to join the ones I gave you._

_I hope he doesn’t hurt you more than that._

Zayn then realizes he needs to clear the rest of his place, so he goes for his gun and stalks his way from room to room, just how he was taught. _Focus Zayn, do this right._ He keeps his back to a wall at all times, gun held high. Knees flexed to absorb recoil and to act as shock absorbers when moving in any direction. Leans slightly forward and extends his arms straight out, head level to maintain balance.

Living room and kitchen are clear. Hallway clear. Bathroom clear. Bedroom clear. Closets clear.

Zayn almost collapses back into his closet, when he knows concretely that Louis and Harry aren’t in the duplex. _How did he move you? How did he get you out of the house? Where are you?_

_Harry Harry Harry Harry._

He brings his hand to his forehead, gun resting on his cheek, as he tries to breathe. He can feel the panic attack settling in; it slinks around the baseboards like a rat, scurries up his leg, latches itself to his neck. Zayn actually winces in pain, at the pinch to his jugular, and then he’s in his bedroom closet. He crouches to his knees, tucks his head down, and says his mother’s name sixty times in a row. Then he says Harry’s name for sixty more.

And then it’s like falling asleep, the time between awake and unconscious as quick and innocuous as the flap of a butterfly’s wing. He’s there in his closet, surrounded by sweaters and the fancy trench coat his dad bought him and his boots, head tucked so he can breathe. But then he’s back in the sunroom, his face peeking around the wood and glass doors into the Klein living room, absolutely terrified. He can feel his pulse in every extremity, can actually feel the blood pumping in his veins. It hurts.

Jesse with his finger over his lips.

_Be quiet._

A flash of silver.

Jesse on his back, waving his arms up above himself, in a _no no no_ motion, eyes wide and watering.

_Don’t move._

Zayn’s not sure he would’ve moved regardless. He’s never been brave like Jesse. Jesse’s fearless, daring, bold. Zayn just watches the Jesse Show from afar, in reference and awe. _That’s my best friend and he chose me._ Zayn was frozen, couldn’t have moved if he tried, as still as stone.

He’s back under the blanket on the lounger, can smell the detergent, and his eyes go heavy. Like he could sleep for a thousand years.

 _No, Zayn. You’re in your closet,_ Jesse whispers.

Zayn rouses from the fainting spell where he had slumped against the wall, with a mouth full of wool scarf and his feet tangled up in an old pair of jeans. Maybe he had thrashed around in whatever dream he just had. The vision, more like.

Zayn hits himself on the forehead, confused, upset at not knowing what the fuck is happening to him. There’s too much to do, so much to figure out, and he fainted again? This asshole attacked Harry and dragged him away somewhere, somewhere Zayn couldn’t begin to try to find, and he took a timeout to decompress in his closet?

_Get a grip._

_Think._

_What next?_

Zayn presses at his temples. He’ll check across the street, kick the front door in of that ugly fucking house, and call out Harry’s name. He’ll search high and low for Harry, _my Harry_ , until he finds him.

Zayn tries to think rationally, hits himself three more times.

So far, Louis is all about symbolism. He killed Destiny in the same way as Jesse, to draw Zayn in. He drew hearts, hand delivered roses, marked a smiley face on a map.

_The map._

_The river._

Maybe he took Harry to the river, to the exact place his sister died. That would be symbolic, would really hit home that he has nothing to lose except his freedom. He could hurt Harry by the river.

It would be so easy to hold Harry at gunpoint and direct him to the muddy banks of the Missouri, to get on his knees so he would feel it seep through his jeans. Make Harry feel what his sister felt, to be at the mercy of another human being, with water rushing nearby and animals just waiting for you to expire. So they can eat you.

Zayn raises himself up onto shaking legs, as his knees knock together precariously. He has to go, he has to find Harry. Louis is all about symbolism, is about making him suffer, is about…

Zayn stops in his tracks, right as his hand settles on the front door handle. Louis is the cat and Zayn is the mouse. The whole point of this entire fiasco was to make Zayn suffer, to hurt him where it hurts most, to fuck up what little self-preservation he had left. It was about gutting Zayn, reducing him to nothing, making sure it hurt. He wanted Zayn to hurt, not like his sister did, but how _Louis_ did.

Louis had to live the rest of his life without his sister, his flesh and blood. And now he’d make sure Zayn had to live without Harry. It sends a swooping sensation to Zayn’s stomach, to really consider the fact that Harry might actually be… dead already.

But he has to try.

And the river is not where Harry is.

Zayn knows where to go.

 

\---

 

_March 28, 2019  
1:11 pm _

Lightning strikes nearby, thunder booms every few minutes, which according to Zayn’s dad means the eye of the storm is close. It’s all close. Too close.

He’s soaking wet by the time he arrives at the front walkway. He had parked across the street and a few houses down, to not seem so conspicuous, wandering towards an empty house in the middle of a fucking thunderstorm. And then he slinked his way closer to the looming Klein house, only to see that the living room light was on.

He couldn’t bear to get close to the sunroom windows, to peek in like a prowler, like the one thing he always feared while staying with Jesse. It would be too full circle, too much of a button on his entire troubled childhood.

He also feared what he’d see inside.

Harry. Dead on the floor. Maybe a bullet through his brain, a knife wound to the stomach.

Detective Zayn Malik has seen his fair share of blood and gore through the years. He can handle it just fine. But to see Harry, _my Harry_ , with his blood all over the floor, right where Jesse and Destiny died, he’s not sure how he would ever recover. They really would have to lock him up in a padded room.

But Zayn also can’t delay the inevitable. He has to walk inside the house with his head held high, to confront the man who has been taunting him for two weeks. The man who killed for him, because of him. The man who stole Harry away. So he gently pushes open the door and looks around, his hand up under his jacket to touch his gun. No one in the entryway or coming down the stairs; it’s just the normal Klein main floor, lit up by a lamp near the sunroom doors.

It looks the same as when they came to retrieve Harry’s things. The communal furniture in the living room, except all askew: couch closer to the entryway, the two armchairs pushed as far away from the fireplace as possible.

Zayn almost crumbles to the ground, his entire cardio vascular system on total and complete pause, when he sees Harry.

Right in front of the fireplace, held to a dining room chair, his wrists and ankles secured to the wood with tape. His mouth is also covered with tape, blood trickles from under his hair, a wound near his temple. He’s slumped forward, his eyes closed, limp as a rag doll.

Zayn gives himself three seconds to comprehend what he’s seeing, Harry bound and gagged, possibly dead in a chair. Harry, who didn’t deserve this. All he had done was stay inside, just like he said he would. _Be good, be safe,_ and now he’s here. Louis Tomlinson brought him here, probably fought him at the duplex, forced him into a car at gun or knife point. Dragged him in here, covered by the darkness of the storm, knocked him out, tied him up.

_We were supposed to have more time._

Zayn blinks and then rushes forward to Harry, falls to his knees next to him. His hands touch everywhere he can reach. He lifts Harry’s head up by the chin, feels for a pulse in his neck, tries to figure out what to do.

He’s alive, beautifully, wonderfully alive. Breathing. Knocked out and tased, by the looks of the small markings near his neck and collarbone. But breathing.

Zayn uses the sleeve of his jacket to wipe at the blood on Harry’s face. He shouldn’t have to bleed for Zayn, not again. It’s not fucking fair. Harry was so good, he did so good. _You talked me down and helped me sleep and wanted me to survive this._

_Now look at you._

_I love you._

_I love you._

Zayn feels his lip begin to quiver, his eyes well up with tears, as he wipes at Harry’s face with his thumb. It’s not fair. Zayn was the one who fucked up, not Harry. It was never Harry, not even a little bit.

But then Zayn senses they’re no longer alone. He feels the quiet footsteps reverberating from his knees all the way up to the tip of his nose. He knows this feeling, of being crept up on, someone watching from the shadows waiting for him to make a move.

Zayn breathes, runs his thumb along Harry’s cheekbone a final time, and then ducks to swerve on his knees. He grabs for his gun and has it out in front of him in no time at all. Lungs heaving, he locks eyes with Louis William Tomlinson as he steps into the room from the hallway leading to the kitchen.

Pretty face, messy hair, and stubble along his jaw. Sharp teeth, an even sharper edge to his brow bone. _You look like Jesse. You look how Jesse would look, if he were still alive. You always reminded me of Jesse_.

They lock eyes as they both take each other in. Zayn, soaking wet with wide eyes, and Louis, calm and collected like it could be any other day of the week.

Zayn knows this feeling as well: holding someone at gunpoint, safety off, just one click away from pulling the trigger to put a man down. But Louis, already ready for it, had a gun of his own. He held it just as high, just as sure of himself, but with it pointed to the right. Pointed to the center of Harry’s chest. Zayn’s eyes bounce from Louis’s face, to the gun, and back again.

“Hello detective,” Louis says, his voice higher than Zayn expected. It causes a shiver to run down his spine, when he realizes the familiarity of it, the muscle memory of holding Louis’s arm while he cried over his dead sister caked into the mud. Charlotte.

Zayn blinks rapidly.

“If you pull that trigger, I will kill Harry,” he says, their eyes locked and unblinking. His hair begins to fall into his eyes, but he doesn’t let Zayn look away. “Try me.”

Zayn blinks again.

“Slide your gun over. Or I swear I’ll shoot him right now,” Louis says simply.

Zayn weighs his options, figures he could somehow out maneuver the situation. After all, he’s the cop trained for this. He completed an exercise just like this back in boot camp, how to talk a man with a gun down, to avoid giving up his own weapon, to talk it out.

But it’s Harry. It’s Harry and Louis has nothing to lose anymore. It’s like as they stare at each other, something inside Zayn’s head slides into place. He can feel Louis’s energy, knows what he’s saying is true. Louis will shoot Harry straight through the heart, no questions asked. _I can’t try you. I can’t chance this._

So Zayn tries to breathe as he lowers his gun to the floor, still on his knees there next to Harry, and slides it over to Louis. Louis stops it with his foot, and then kicks it behind him, somewhere into the darkened dining room.

It’s gone. Zayn has lost his only weapon.

“Well detective,” Louis says in a breezy tone, as he moves fully into the room, “it certainly took you long enough. Are you surprised to see me? A total stranger, right? No hidden psychos in your world. Just little old me.”

Zayn sniffs as he backs away from Harry, not liking the proximity of Louis next to Harry’s chair, until he’s sitting on his ass. Back in line with the wall near the sunroom doors. Staring.

“Yeah,” he clears his throat, “and yeah, it took me some time.”

“But here we are! It all seems rather fitting, don’t you think? An eye for an eye?” he smiles, his teeth pointed and sharp, while gesturing the gun towards the blood on Harry’s face. “You killed my sister, so I killed Destiny. You killed my sister, so here I stand.”

“I didn’t kill your sister,” Zayn says quietly, eyes dancing from Louis to Harry’s slumped form.

Louis gives Zayn the murderous look from the bar, the one full of revulsion and disgust.

“ _You_ don’t get to talk yet.”

Zayn blinks up at him.

“And we both know you may as well have,” Louis hisses. “The second you dismissed her, dismissed me, and made it out to be a fucking overdose, was the day you fucking killed her.”

Louis, so easy to switch his emotions, just like Harry, then begins to smile. Like it’s a fight that he’s already won. And with a gun in his hand, and what Zayn suspects is a knife in his jeans pocket, it’s starting to look that way.

“So no talking. See, I have to give my villain speech!” Louis exclaims in laughter, with his arms held out wide. “Don’t take that away from me, Zayn!”

Zayn lets him laugh and think the whole thing, the whole perverse little get-together, is a joke. He vows to keep his mouth shut, to keep Louis engaged and talking as much as he wants, so he can come up with a backup plan to get out of this. To figure out what Louis’s goal is tonight.

Louis shifts so that he can rest his hand on the back of Harry’s chair, nonchalantly like it was just another funny story to tell amongst friends. Zayn gets the sense that Louis is used to being the storyteller of any room he inhabits, when he wants to be. Zayn wants him to have it.

So he shrugs and gestures for Louis to continue. To give his speech.

Louis smiles viciously, his eyes dark.

“I’ve been shoving myself in your face for a long time, you know,” he says as he crosses his ankles and lets the gun fall to his side. “After I realized you weren’t going to return my calls, after you ignored me for _years_ when I tried to talk to you about my sister, I moved in across the street. So I could watch you. So you would _see_ me. We got our mail at the same time, I gardened right in front of you, I tried to flirt. And even at the beginning, when we passed on the sidewalk that first time, I thought, ‘of course he’ll remember me, I’ll at least have a familiar face, he’ll say hello and ask about my family. And I can finally get him to reopen Lottie’s case.’ I thought, ‘of course he’ll look my way.’”

Zayn swallows the lump in his throat. He doesn’t remember. He doesn’t remember any interaction between them whatsoever. He doesn’t remember ever hearing Charlotte’s nickname either, not as he investigated her life after the fact. He swallows the lump in his throat and thinks of CJ.

And it’s like Louis knows what Zayn is thinking, because he tilts his chin down, angry.

“That’s right. Lottie.”

Zayn blinks.

“You ignored me,” Louis then spits with venom. “Overlooked me, every single time I tried. Looked right fucking past me like I was a fucking ghost. Like I was invisible.”

It’s still not Zayn’s turn to talk, so he bites it. He swallows the retort down his throat until it practically hurts.

“But then I thought,” Louis continues, his face switching back to contemplative, “‘well if I’m a ghost, at least I can use it to my advantage.’”

He slowly moves to Harry’s other side, his fingers skimming the back of the chair, to stand closer to Zayn on the floor.

“I decided to be a ghost. I decided to watch you, to wait, to find out everything I could about you, detective. See what made you tick. Since you don’t notice _anything_ , I figured it would be easy to hang out in the shadows. I watched you sulk and smoke alone and fuck your neighbor. I watched you hop into that cop car every day, your old cases fucking _forgotten_ , to go work a job you are vastly unqualified for. _More_ cases for you to fuck up. _More_ families to tear apart.”

Zayn gulps at Lexi being brought up. Thank god Louis never decided to hurt her. And about then, he senses Harry beginning to stir. He sees his foot twitch against the chair leg. So he locks eyes with Louis and won’t let him look away.

“So then I realized it was about work. It had to be about your job, because that’s all you fucking cared about. Fucking your hot neighbor and going into work on time like a fucking robot,” Louis gestures at him, at his robot heart.

“I started by hacking your files, to see if you were fucking up again. See if any files seemed sketchy, rushed, another murder you could pin on drugs because it was _easier_ … But then! Lo and behold, what do I find?” Louis says with a vicious smile. “Your name popped up under a case, as a witness. So then I hacked _your_ file. Zayn Malik, there in the system listed under a solved murder, witness to the deceased. Another dead kid who needed his help, and he didn’t do a fucking thing. I read everything I could about you. I saw the papers and the news reports about that poor little boy who died in South O, and his poor little friend who was only steps away while it happened.”

Somewhere, Zayn hears Jesse inhale. He knows Jesse can hear it, can understand what it all means, how fucked up Louis Tomlinson really is. The hacker, the murderer, the psychopath hell-bent on destruction.

Jesse doesn’t come any closer. He doesn’t settle himself next to Zayn. Maybe he’s scared too.

Louis sees the cloud pass over Zayn’s face, as another bout of thunder rolls overhead. He even looks up at the ceiling, like he could see the outside sky through it as black as midnight.

_Focus. Don’t let him know it was your fault. The things you did. The things you didn’t do._

“And that’s when I figured out how to hurt you,” Louis continues his monologue, as he looks down at Zayn on the floor. “That’s how I knew what to do, to really, truly hurt you. All I had to do was put you back in this house, force you to face your mistakes again. I just had to find out who lived here in the new boarding house, research, pick one of the renters who seemed gullible, and repeat it. It was easy as anything, once I hit the jackpot: Destiny The Stripper let me right in.”

Zayn can’t feel Destiny, not the way he can feel Jesse, but he images her face in that moment. Her sweet, trusting face. How she was tricked by this fucking bastard, when all she wanted was to not feel lonely anymore.

He grits his teeth.

“I figured her out at the club, see. Because I’m a _great_ actor and I’m _very_ patient. Got a few dances at first. Let her begin to see me as a shy, sweet regular. Then it was paying her more and more each time, being polite, not touching her. I smiled all bashful like a fucking schoolboy with a crush,” Louis shrugs with another smile. Wistful. “Once she trusted me, I had her. I told her I was married, so I couldn’t talk much outside of the club. Couldn’t text. But I brought her roses from my garden. I gave her roses each and every time, my special girl, the only one I had eyes for. She ate it up. She fucking _loved_ me, couldn’t wait to let me in her house that night, to finally make it official.”

Zayn knows what’s coming so he braces himself for impact. He shifts until his back is fully upright against the wall, his feet tucked up near his ass, his eyes not anywhere close to Harry where his hand twitches. _If I pretend Harry isn’t there, if I keep the focus on me, maybe Louis will forget._

“I told her to meet me at the door at four-thirty on the dot. I told her I’d have roses again. Special roses for a special girl. I told her what to wear, since it was my favorite look on a girl. _My_ girl. Told her to be quiet, to tip toe, to come let me in. She wanted nothing more than to let me in, the handsome guy with the roses, the nice one who never put his hands on her at the club, until she _begged_ me to touch her.”

Zayn’s stomach churns, bile forcing it’s way up, as he imagines Louis’s dirty, pathetic hands anywhere near Destiny. He actually has to press a hand to his sternum to stop it. He doesn’t want to hear the rest. But Louis won’t let him off easy, just smiles again and moves closer.

“It’s not as hard as you think, honestly,” he says quietly, like they have a secret. He then holds his hand up in a knife-like motion and says, “If you do it fast enough, put enough force behind it, it’s quick. Right as she opened the door, one quick motion to get her in the lower intestines, like I saw in Jesse’s pictures. And when she stumbled back into the house, surprised, I just took her by the shoulders and laid her down on the floor. She looked up at me in shock, like she was trying to make sure it was me, and not some crazy stranger. She barely put up a fight. She just tried to grab the knife a few times, so I cut her palms. And her cheek, to match your best friend.”

Zayn hates that he’s crying, but a tear falls without warning.

“When I swung it down into her chest,” Louis gestures again, the gun in his hand instead of a knife, “she made a sound, just one. Just this… breathy sound. And then… I watched until it was over. She was gone. I stood up to look at her, so I could make sure it was perfect. I needed to cross her arms, of course, not sure what that was about… But I needed it to be perfect for you, Zayn. Perfectly tailored just for you.”

Zayn imagines it in his mind, how Louis must’ve known to place the body just so. Her arms up over her chest like a vampire in an old movie, her eyes open, in grey shorts and a white tank top. The same. Mirrored to Jesse.

“You – ” Zayn starts to say, his face in a sneer as another tear falls down to his chin.

Louis shakes his head like he’s disappointed. _Not yet, my friend._

“I knew it worked, when a few hours later I stood in front of Harry here,” he gestures with the gun over his shoulder, “right there behind the yellow police tape. I saw you run out of the house to puke on the curb, your chest heaving like crazy. And you know what I did, Zayn?” Zayn shakes his head, revolted. “I smiled like a madman. I _laughed_. It worked.”

_It did fucking work. I was a fucking wreck. I lost a part of myself all over again that day, the day you forced me back into this house to see another young kid dead dead dead dead._

Right then, Harry inhales sharply through his nose. Zayn and Louis both look over at him, where he comes to as quick as a whip. Harry shakes his head, must remember where he is. His eyes bounce around the room, terrified, before he looks down at Zayn with wide eyes, his beautiful mouth hidden behind the tape. He tries to yell something to him. _Run_ or _don’t worry about me I’ll be fine._

Zayn shakes his head just as rapidly in return. _Don’t try to talk, don’t call attention to yourself. Be quiet. Be quiet._

He holds up a finger over his lips.

And that’s what causes Zayn to go dizzy, his vision swimming in and out of focus as Harry thrashes a bit in the chair, tries to kick a foot out at Louis. Louis scoffs at the movement, at Harry completely at his mercy, and elbows Harry in the ribs.

Harry _oomphs_ and goes silent once more.

Louis, still not done with his speech, moves away from Zayn to instead pace near the couch and the dining room. It feels darker somehow, the outside world clouded over with deep, grey rainclouds. Somewhere, lightning strikes and it feels close. Too close.

“I just want it to be clear,” Louis continues, nodding like he’s a professor giving his second-to-last lesson, “that this here, right now, was not my plan all along. You know that, right? That this was an on-the-fly type decision? I’m a planner, Zayn. Meticulously so. I gave up my entire life, any tether I had, my friends, my other siblings, all of it… to make sure this was perfect. So you know, this was not what was supposed to happen. Do you see?”

Zayn blinks, unsure of what to do. He’s being asked a direct question, but it feels rhetorical. It feels wrong to open his mouth, not when Harry has started to cry in his chair, his chin down touching his chest like he can’t believe this is happening. Like he can’t believe he has to listen to the plan of how Louis Tomlinson murdered someone in cold blood, just for Zayn.

“The case was supposed to sit cold for years. You were never supposed to solve it. _That_ was the whole point. I wanted it to haunt you, to fucking _taunt_ you, the case of the poor girl who died in the Klein house, with a piece of a map in her locker that lead to no where. You’d have nothing! Your fault all over again. She died because of you, and her murder would go unsolved because of you. You, you, you,” Louis punctuates it with the gun pointed at Zayn. His eyes darken once more, as he says, “You were supposed to crack. To fucking _crash_ from the weight of this, while I watched. I was going to send you flowers and notes every so often, so you’d know I was still there. Still watching. Waiting for you to break. And I was going to sit back and revel in it, as you looked out your front window and saw my fucking house, my fucking _garden_ , and couldn’t put it together. You’d receive the roses and the hearts and never tie it to Lottie, because you’re a fucking _asshole_.”

Zayn wants to say something again, opens his mouth, because it’s not true, it’s just not. He would’ve solved it. He would’ve noticed eventually. CJ told him to open his eyes, and he does, he _did_ , he swears. But Louis shakes his head as a warning. He raises the gun towards Harry, like he really fucking means it, so Zayn snaps his lips shut.

“I thought maybe you’d quit your job. Maybe you’d have a nervous breakdown. Maybe your little girlfriend down the block, what’s her name? Maybe her husband would finally fucking catch you fucking his wife, and I could sit back with some popcorn!” he laughs, big and booming like a clap of thunder. “But… as always, you fucked it up.”

It feels like an explosion hovers under the surface of Zayn’s skin. It’s like he’s a ball of a million conflicting emotions and energies, because he’s fucking terrified for himself and for Harry. He’s exhausted, wrung out, completely fucked up in the head. But he’s also angry. He’s so fucking angry, his hands start to shake. He wants to detonate himself, ignite the spark, to send pieces of himself flying at Louis. _Let you see how it feels._

But Louis hovers above Zayn, just a foot away, before crouching down on his haunches so they’re face to face. Close. Too close.

“It somehow always works out for you,” Louis says, almost like he’s in awe of a Wonder of the World. “Instead of flailing or falling apart, what do you do? You actually get a suspect. You didn’t… you actually tried to pin it on someone. I didn’t – think you’d ever look Harry’s way; he was just some random roommate in that house. But then again… I’ve seen Harry’s shows. I followed him too, once I saw you on his tail. I’ve watched him eye-fuck an entire room. So I should’ve known he got his dick wet with Destiny at some point.”

Zayn’s eyes flicker towards Harry. He has his eyes closed, his head shaking back and forth over and over, like he’d be covering his ears if he still had control over his hands.

Louis snaps his fingers in front of Zayn’s face to pay attention. Their eyes lock once more and Louis tilts his head again, like a fucking baby learning something new.

“But even still, Harry didn’t do it,” Louis reasons. “So I thought you’d clear him, and _then_ you’d fucking die from the weight of it, with your only suspect cleared. I thought you’d finally crack… But no, I kept an eye on Destiny’s file, to see if you had let him off, before taking yourself off the case. Since you had nothing, _nothing_ else to go on! I thought I’d finally have you on your fucking knees.”

Zayn tries not to blink, tries not to let his face give away his anger anymore than it already has. If he presents himself as a big, tough detective with anger issues, it won’t end well for either of them. It becomes a taunt of its own. He has to stay calm. He has to let Louis think he’s won.

Louis, still crouched down in front of Zayn, the hand holding the gun between his legs, studies Zayn’s face up close. Like he’s trying to memorize it, the lines and bruises and split lip, now that he’s able to stare at Zayn at a close distance instead of across an Omaha street.

“But no,” Louis says quietly, his resentment held at bay briefly. “It was like, once you cleared him, you made him your fucking _boyfriend_? You start _fucking_ him? Come on, Zayn! Can’t you see how fucked up you are? To be doing this? To be happy, when a girl died in that house, because of your negligence? To find true love’s kiss or whatever bullshit is in nursery rhymes?”

Zayn feels himself begin to crumble again, his face a red splotchy mess. It’s like now that he’s started crying, he can’t stop. Louis won’t stop talking, won’t let up, and it’s headed towards a climax. Towards a finish line.

Zayn’s not sure he’s going to make it out of this. He’s definitely not sure about Harry or what Louis will do to him.

“You must like them fucked up,” Louis says quietly, with a slight grin. “You thought he murdered a girl and you still let him come over to sit on your steps, let him _cuddle_ you. When I saw that, I almost broke my window I slammed it so hard. I couldn’t believe my fucking eyes. You beat the shit out of him, truly believed he murdered his roommate, and you still fucked him? Or did he fuck you? I mean wow, Zayn… You must really like them messed up.” And then Louis tilts his head to think, and says, “You think you’d be into me?”

He wiggles his eyebrows as his finger dances up Zayn’s thigh, before he bursts into a fit of laughter. Zayn winces, can’t believe he was actually touched by this man. Louis rolls his eyes as he laughs harder, and moves up onto his feet once more. He steps behind Harry’s chair and yanks his head up by the long hair draping down his back.

Harry cries out in pain, muffled by the tape, as Zayn realizes Louis pulled a huge chunk out. He wrinkles his nose at it, like maybe he didn’t mean to do it that hard, as he shakes his hand out to rid it of tangled curls.

Zayn bites his lip and wants to scream to Harry that it wasn’t supposed to be this way, _I’m so sorry, I never meant for this to happen, I only ever wanted you to be safe._

But Harry looks up at him, his face red and tear stained, to nod vigorously _. I know babe, it’s okay, I’m okay, we’re okay._

Louis, clued into their silent conversation, grabs for Harry’s hair again, to make his original point. He forces Zayn to look at Harry, to see him in his present position. Tied up and in pain. All because of Zayn’s actions.

“I watched you two through the window that one night, when you left it wide open,” Louis says as he jostles Harry’s head back and forth. “You were all laid up together, happy as can be. And then when I went into your house today, I saw boxes? Living together too? Well shit, Zayn. Apparently none of this worked the way it was supposed to.”

Zayn blinks.

“And I do not like to feel stupid. I don’t like to lose,” Louis scoffs, moving away from Harry to stand in between him and Zayn. “So I made a new plan, once I saw you two really start to come together: taunt you with Harry. Send you even more roses, to both of you, to really hit home that I was watching Harry as well. Because it’s like… you must understand: you were happy as a fucking clam, and what, I was supposed to just sit back and let that happen?”

Louis’s practically shrieking at this point, as Zayn’s mind dips to _I didn’t tell Ceej where I was going, I didn’t tell anyone, this is it, this speech is all I have left. I need a fucking plan._

Louis narrows his eyes, like he knows every time Zayn’s mind wanders away from the words he’s saved up.

“No. I’m sorry, but I couldn’t do that. I couldn’t let you be happy. You let my baby sister be labeled a drug addict, told me she would ‘find peace.’ You gave a fucking interview to the paper, you said she died from an overdose and that it was an epidemic. You didn’t even _try_! You didn’t talk to her boyfriend, or investigate her deserted car up the road! You didn’t return any of my messages, where I gave you theories and leads! I called you eight fucking times that year! I sent letters! Emails! And nothing! All you did was pat yourself on the back for closing your first case.”

_I’m selfish, I was selfish, all I could think about was me. I could look into the case again, I swear. I could try to solve it. You just have to let me go._

Zayn uses his eyes to send the message, to beg without begging. But Louis shakes his head. Like he’s disappointed. Like Zayn was a child or a dunce or a sorry man about to be hanged in the town square.

“I sent you roses. I sent two bouquets that one day, since I knew Harry was inside. I wanted to see how you’d handle it: more map pieces with pen marks you’d never figure out, notes, hearts. Kept you sure that I was still watching you. Both of you. Playing house like you had nothing to worry about. Like Destiny was trash.”

Zayn really does explode then.

“She wasn’t trash!” he screams, his hand coming up to hit himself in the forehead. “I never stopped trying to solve it! I tried!”

He heaves a few breaths, another tear falls, his nose snotty and disgusting. Over Louis’s shoulder, he can see Harry tense up. Like he’s listening intently.

Louis holds up his hand with the gun, as he reaches with his other into his black jeans, shaking his head like _no, you never tried, not nearly hard enough._ He brings out a large serrated hunting knife, just like the one that killed Jesse. He holds it up into the light like he’s inspecting it, like a fucking scientist studying a slide. He ignores Zayn’s outburst and instead focuses back on both hands, a knife and a gun at his disposal. Zayn remembers yet again that he has nothing. He’s nothing. He can’t save Harry. _My Harry, Harry Harry Harry Harry._

He smacks himself in the head four times, as Louis looks on, fascinated.

“It’s Harry,” Louis says like he can still read Zayn’s mind. He nods like it all came together for him, finally. “I realized it last night. And then again today, once you left for work again, with kiss on the cheek from the missus here, as he handed you a fucking packed lunch… that it’s Harry. He was truly the key. The only way to hurt you now, you selfish prick.”

Harry begins to thrash again, against the tape restraints. He tries to scream, tries to get out of this entire thing, as his name gets brought up numerous times in a row. It’s like he too understands that had they stayed apart like they should’ve, maybe none of this would’ve happened. Harry would be safe. Free.

Louis tuts at him, moving closer to Harry. He stands only an inch from Harry’s lap, stares down at him as he continues speaking to Zayn.

“Your final downfall,” Louis runs a finger down Harry’s wet cheek. Harry shivers. “The one thing I knew would push you over the edge. You don’t get to be happy, Zayn. You don’t get the white picket fence kind of life. Now it’s your turn to be in pain, to hurt, like my sister did. Like Lottie. Like me. Like Jesse and Destiny and any other person you’ve let down. Like Harry.”

And with that, Louis raises the knife high. He plunges it down into Harry’s left thigh muscle, all the way to the hilt. And leaves it there.

Zayn gasps, starts to cry out, his hand in the air like it could possibly help. Harry screams bloody murder into the tape, his muffled voice reverberating around the entire room. He screams and screams, tries to thrash away from the pain. It’s a sound Zayn’s never witnessed before, since he only sees bodies after they’ve already been stabbed. He’s seen gunshot victims, heard their cries, but it’s not the same. This, now, is like hearing a poor animal get caught in a trap. Screeching. It’s never been like this.

Harry screams and screams, his voice hoarse behind the tape. He finally clamps his eyes shut, so he won’t have to look down at the knife sticking out of his leg, as he whimpers. Actually whimpers, it hurts so bad, over and over again. Zayn tries to scream back at him, _be quiet, it’s okay, you’re okay._ But no sound comes out. He’s frozen. Mute.

Louis smiles at Harry, before rounding on Zayn. He steps up to Zayn, cowers over him like an adult would with a small child in time-out, and smiles even wider.

“Hurts, doesn’t it?” he whispers.

Before Zayn can react, he’s stomped in the face by one of Louis’s shoes. It’s a harsh, swift kick to the face that cracks one of his teeth in half and breaks his nose. Zayn actually hears the cartilage and bone in the center of his face, as it rearranges itself and separates.

Zayn’s head swims, he tries to bring a hand up to stop the blood gushing out of his nose, but it’s no use. A shutdown begins, everything within his body crumples. He falls to the floor on his back, practically fully in the sunroom, eyes towards the ceiling. It’s happening, he’s about to lose mental capacity. _I’m not here. Maybe I’m not here and I’m somewhere else. Me and Harry, having dinner downtown in the park. Just us._

It starts to happen, the thing Louis wanted all along: for Zayn to break. His mind goes to the park, to the trees and the singing birds, to Harry’s laughing face there at a picnic table. Eating sandwiches and fruit from Tupperware containers they never returned to Ceej. _This wasn’t supposed to happen. This wasn’t our story. We were fucked up from the start, it shouldn’t have worked, but it did. We were supposed to be happy. I should’ve kept you safe._

_I wish I could touch you right now. I wish I could hold your hand as I drift away for good._

_I can’t do this anymore. I’m too weak._

Louis steps over him and stares down at the crumpled man he always wanted to destroy.

“You’re weak, Zayn Malik,” Louis says quietly, like he can read Zayn’s final thoughts. “You are pathetic and weak. You can’t protect Harry, you didn’t protect your little friend Jesse, and I want you to know it was all your fault. My sister, my best fucking friend, was murdered. And you did _nothing_. So this? All of this? It’s because of you. And I want you to own that.”

Something begins to happen. Something big. Something unexpected. It’s like a shutdown, but not. It’s like a fainting spell, but different. Zayn nods, his eyes getting heavier. Tired. _My fault, my fault, my fault._

“It’s all my fault,” Zayn mumbles, swimming in and out of consciousness.

_I’m not here._

Louis smiles down at him.

_I’m not here._

And then Zayn’s gone.

 

\---

 

_March 28, 2019  
1:58 pm_

It’s a lot like floating over his body again, like he’s disassociated to the brink, but not. Because Zayn knows, he’s aware, that he’s in his body. He’s lucid, sort of, buried deep within his own head to see something he hasn’t seen in a very long time. To be thirteen again and relive the day Jesse died. To open his eyes.

Zayn’s there, he can tell. He’s alive and breathing. He can see his fingers, can feel his toes as they graze the blanket. _I’m under the blanket. I can feel the fabric of the lounger._

He grips the blanket in his hands and presses it to his face, his un-stomped, not bleeding face. It smells like laundry detergent.

He blinks about fifty times in a row, to see if this could be real. If this is actually happening, if it could be at all possible. He pulls the blanket down to his chin and knows it’s real because it’s nighttime and the sunroom is filled with Klein pictures and boxes. It’s the dead of night, the crickets sing songs on the other side of the windows, the wind causes the streetlight on the corner to sway back and forth.

He then looks across from him in the sunroom, to see an empty lounger.

_I’m here. I’m not here. Where am I?_

It’s the night in 2002, except Zayn is aware of it. He feels like an adult man trapped inside of his gangly thirteen-year-old body. It’s the same and different all at once, the emotions running through him. He’s scared, he hates being alone in the Klein house, especially on the main floor where the doors remain unlocked. The sunroom, with all of its windows, for anyone to look in and creep on him. It’s his nightmare. But he’s also scared for himself, for Harry, because Louis Tomlinson decided to hurt them. _Where is Harry?_

Before he can comprehend anything else, he hears it. The front door. Someone coming in the front door.

Zayn, no longer aware or alert to the face that he’s experiencing it all over again, reverts back. He’s thirteen. He’s a child.

Barely awake, Zayn’s entire body engages. It surges with adrenaline as he slaps a hand to his mouth so he won’t make a sound. It’s happening, the worst thing he could ever imagine. A stranger. Someone breaking in, just walking in the front door, to hurt him, to hurt the family, to do terrible, unspeakable things.

_I need to run. I need to find Jesse._

It’s a fight-or-flight response, like he’s a rabbit hiding in the dark, as the fox with its glowing eyes searches for him in the grass. So as quietly as he can, Zayn slides off the lounger onto the floor. He silently army crawls his way to the open glass double doors, to peek out to his right. To see whomever it is standing in the entryway. He needs an out, an escape route, a way to hightail it up the stairs to find Jesse and scream for help.

He doesn’t see any movement right away. The main room and living room seem to be clear of any strangers. Maybe it was the wind! Maybe it blew the door open! _Should I run? Should I chance it and pound my feet on the stairs so Jesse’s parents wake up?_

Just as he begins to haul himself up onto his knees and then his feet, he hears more movement. The stranger who pushed open the door is now in the house. His boots squeak on the front entry floor, then he’s stepping into the room fully.

Zayn almost gasps, he swears it. He almost gives away his position, hidden in the sunroom, to the strange man with a broken backpack.

But for some reason, his eye is drawn up to the staircase. To the second landing, above the room, with his face half concealed, is Jesse. Wide eyed and terrified himself, afraid to move, unsure of what to do. Jesse, scared of the strange man, too.

Slowly, Jesse raises his finger up over his lips.

_Shhh. Don’t make a sound. Don’t move._

Zayn presses his hand over his mouth again, does as he’s told, and keeps every muscle still. He has to keep quiet and not disturb his surrounding. He’s safe there, in the sunroom. Tucked away to the left, not noticeable at first. Jesse, who watches it all perched up at the top of the stairs, continues to stare down at Zayn. Finger to his lips.

Zayn nods.

The strange man, seemingly comfortable with the state of the house and no sign of conscious occupants to catch him, steps further inside. He moves slowly, meticulously, until he’s next to the stairs. Jesse ducks behind the wall leading up the second staircase, keeps his face hidden. The man looks around, tries to decide where to go or what to do. He must want to fill his backpack with something important. He eyes the hallway to the kitchen, but decides against it. Then he begins to move further into the house and to the left. Towards the fireplace and maybe into the dining room. Or maybe to the sunroom.

Everything inside of Zayn tells him to stay still. No longer fight-or-flight, he just crouches there, frozen like the Mary statue down the street. _Mary, help me Mary, keep us safe._

Zayn continues to hold a hand to his mouth, his lip still between his teeth, to keep himself from screaming. He can’t move. If he tries to crawl backwards or to the lounge chair, it’ll be too obvious. The man moves around the couch and he would be directly in his line of sight, if he decided to turn around and not look into the dining room.

In slow motion, Zayn watches the man turn. From the dining room, to the fire place, where he’ll eventually look into the sunroom and see Zayn down on the floor by the glass door. He’ll know. He’ll see that someone is awake, that he’s been found out, caught. Zayn is tempted to close his eyes, to pretend like he’s not here, _I’m not here_ , but he can’t.

He can’t move.

Right as the stranger begins to turn fully towards Zayn, Jesse comes bounding down the stairs as loudly as ever. His feet pound into the wood, he slaps a hand to the bannister, calls out, “Hey!”

Zayn’s heart stops, since the man instead turns the other way around to stare at Jesse Klein. Saving the day. Diverting attention. Caught off guard, he doesn’t chance another look towards the dining room or sunroom. He just stares at Jesse’s set, determined face as he gets to the bottom of the stairs.

But Zayn can see his best friend’s face in the pale moonlight streaming into the house, and he’s too pale. Too scared. It’s all too much.

“What the fuck are you doing here!” Jesse hisses, as the man rounds the couch to be near the front door. “Get out!”

Jesse points to the door, starts hissing more instructions. Zayn hears words like _leave_ and _Tim_ and _my dad_. He even holds up a hand like _don’t get any closer, don’t you fucking dare._ The man whispers a few words that Zayn can’t make out, which has Jesse sneering like it was one of the Nielsen brothers, asking for a pair of his sister’s underwear. He waves his hand towards the door, even holds up a fist, like he could possibly hit a grown man. And Zayn shouldn’t be impressed or proud, not then, because he tries to suppress those thoughts on a good day, let alone in the middle of a burglary. But he is.

The man spooks. He freaks out, stumbles over his own feet as he backs up towards the door. Zayn, still hidden on the floor and tucked in the sunroom, hears more harsh words. Jesse’s voice begins to rise. Like he wants to be loud so his dad will wake up and see what’s going on. He calls the man a “pussy.” His favorite word.

And the man must know it’s over, that he’s been caught, his face has been seen. Because to Zayn’s horror, like it’s happening in slow motion, the man shifts to get something out of his boot. Zayn sees a flash of metal, _silver_ , the wild movements of the man’s arm, as Jesse goes silent. His eyes wide, like he can’t believe it either. He holds his hands out, tries to block it, tries to fight back.

Zayn’s brain supplies him with the odd thought that it sounds like puppies play fighting, with swishes of clothing, body parts knocking together. Ghosts whispering.

But then there’s blood.

Zayn stifles a whimper as blood splashes to Jesse’s shirt. Or maybe it didn’t splash, maybe it came from Jesse. Because it starts to grow, a huge red wet patch from Jesse’s lower stomach, before it starts dripping down his grey shorts and onto the floor. His white tshirt isn’t even white anymore. It’s red. His hands are covered in it, he has a cut on his cheek. He stumbles back, like his puppet strings have been cut, like he’s lost that little spark that makes him Jesse the Troublemaker. He looks down at the gushing wound and tries to hold a hand to it, like maybe he can make it stop. _Make it stop, make it stop, make it stop._

Zayn stops breathing. He stops sending oxygen to his body.

It’s too much blood and tissue to hold inside with his hands. Jesse falls to the floor on his back, looking up with wide eyes. Like maybe that was it and now it’s over, the man will flee and it’s done.

It’s not done.

Zayn begins to move, wants to crawl to the couch at least, so that he can scream up the staircase for anyone to come find them. He swears he will. He just needs leg function, _give it three more seconds_. He’s fast, he can run fast, maybe he can bolt up the stairs before the man can catch him. He needs to help.

Like his mind is five seconds delayed, like he has to speed the tape up to catch it, Zayn realizes that Jesse has stopped trying to hold his stomach together. He instead looks up at the man and gestures with his hands up over his chest, like a _no no no_ motion, like he’s a baseball umpire calling an Out. The man must think he’s begging him to stop, to please let him be okay.

But Zayn almost cries into his hand, because Jesse’s better than that. He has more pride than half the people Zayn knows. Jesse would never beg. Ever. Jesse just waves his arms, _no no no_ , and Zayn knows. Because he’s seen Jesse do it before.

It’s his move, when he’s telling Zayn where to go, to run, to stop giving a shit about what other people say.

_Stay safe, Zayn! Be good, don’t listen to them, lock the door!_

_Nice and safe._

Jesse isn’t begging for the stranger to have mercy. He’s gesturing the only way he knows how, to tell Zayn to stay put, to not show himself yet.

Zayn always listens to Jesse, always follows instructions, because he has to. _Jesse is my best friend and he wouldn’t let anything bad happen to me._ He doesn’t move from his position near the glass door, keeps his hand over his mouth so he won’t make a sound, and does as he’s told. _Don’t move._

And then Zayn can’t quite fathom it. Why it happens, what it means. Easy as anything, the man ignores Jesse’s silent “plea” and swings his arm down. Another flash of silver, a slice of bright light cutting through the air. The knife goes clean into Jesse’s upper chest, right as his arms fall mid movement, crossed over himself.

That’s when a sound finally escapes Jesse’s mouth. A small grunt. A gurgle in his throat. A cough.

Zayn blinks.

And then he blinks again, like his mind is playing tricks on him. His best friend did not just get stabbed two times in his own house, while Zayn watched. It’s not possible.

_How did this happen? This was never supposed to happen. We’re good kids. Jesse is a good kid._

_I’m not here._

And it’s then that something in Zayn shuts down. His heart rate falls back to normal, instead of whirring like a computer trying to boot up. He’s no longer strung up by a hook, body frozen into stone. He relaxes. His muscles unclench. He blinks and watches those final moments happen, but it doesn’t… stick. It’s like he’s floating above himself, watching a real-time movie, or maybe he’s playing The Sims with Jesse on his dad’s nice work laptop that they’re never supposed to touch but do anyways.

Jesse wheezes a few final times, like he’s just gone for a long run around the park. He coughs, his eyes drift towards the ceiling. His face looks… peaceful.

And then Zayn closes his eyes so all he can take in are the sounds. More coughing. More wheezing, like Jesse wants to speak but can’t. The man must stand there and watch it happen, must use his eyes when Zayn can’t, to watch Jesse drift away.

Eventually it’s quiet.

Zayn sits there with his eyes closed, face pressed to the door and it’s quiet. A few minutes later maybe, he hears the man’s boots on the floor. He starts to take a few steps in, like he has to go to the dining room for something. But then he must change his mind.

As he shuffles to step around Jesse near the entryway, Zayn silently crawls back over to his lounger. He’s very tired, it was a very long day. They had a good one, Zayn smoked a cigarette for the fist time. His best friend taught him how to do it. It was a great day.

He’s quiet in his movements, as he tucks himself under the blanket. He’s just so tired, so very tired, and all he wants to do is sleep. There were sounds in the other room, maybe there were ghosts whispering, but he can’t go investigate it now. It’s so late, his mother will kill him for staying up so late.

Zayn finally opens his eyes to blink a few times. Before he lies down, he glances out the window. He sees a man running away from the house, _how strange_ , in all black, with a broken strap on his backpack.

He can’t keep his head up anymore. He lays down on the pillow, _what a strange dream_ , how stupid, there wasn’t a real man out there to peer through the glass at him. His eyes droop.

_I’m not here._

And then Zayn’s gone.

 

\---

 

_March 28, 2019  
2:14 pm_

Two things bring Zayn back: the sound of Harry crying out in pain again and the sole of a shoe nudging him in the cheek.

Zayn realizes he’s still on his back on the floor, his upper half in the sunroom, and his legs awkwardly positioned in the living room. He’s not so wet anymore, his hair has started to curl at the ends, but there’s wetness on his face. It even starts to drip towards his eyes, so he wipes a hand at it.

Red.

He almost hurls, almost vomits from the taste of blood in his mouth, so he leans onto his side and spits it out.

Outside, the sky has gotten even darker. It’s a swirl of storm clouds, might even be tornado weather if it were closer to May. Massive droplets of water pound against the glass of the sunroom, but not from any particular direction. It’s like the rain hits the windows, all of them, sideways. It would be loud, if Zayn paid enough attention to it: the wind and rain and booming thunder.

But all he can hear is Harry, the sounds he makes from agonizing pain, and Louis’s voice, which swims back into focus.

Zayn’s not sure how long he was out for, but it must’ve been long enough for Louis to get bored.

“One little kick to the face, and you’re out?” Louis scoffs from where he’s perched in the plush armchair closest to Zayn. He must’ve been poking at Zayn with his shoe the entire time, since his right cheek throbs almost as much as his nose. “Really Zayn? Jesus, you’re fucking pathetic.”

Zayn nods at that, because he is, deep down. He tries to sit up to put his back against the wall once more, but he’s dizzy. Harry was right: insomnia usually indicates repressed memories. Zayn repressed the entire night, he witnessed Jesse’s actual murder, and couldn’t mentally handle it. He went back to bed and left Jesse to lie there on the floor, alone, cold and dead.

It’s like now that he knows for sure what happened the night Jesse died, now that he’s realized he had shoved it so far down so he couldn’t remember, his center of gravity is off. It’s what his brain has been trying to tell him all along, especially the last few days: to remember. He rests his head against the wall and closes his eyes, afraid to look at Harry or the white sheet of his face, from blood loss. He can smell it.

_I’m weak. I’m pathetic._

_I can’t look._

_What if he hurt you even more while I was passed out?_

_More blood blood blood._

_I’m so sorry, J. I should’ve shown myself, should’ve run over to you to save you. I shouldn’t have let you die. I let myself block it out immediately, I crawled away like a fucking child._

_I was a child._

Louis moves the chair forward a bit, so he can kick Zayn in the center of his chest. _Eyes open, pay attention._ So Zayn does reluctantly, wipes at the blood still coming from his nose, and tries to focus his line of sight. It’s blurry.

He finally gazes over at Harry and sees that he has his eyes closed, he’s trying to focus on anything but the knife still sticking out of his leg. It’s just there, hard steel lodged into his thigh muscle. He’s crying, making that same awful sound behind the tape over his mouth, like he’s trying to ask Zayn something. Begging.

Zayn wants to say something, to force Harry to look at him. To tell him to be quiet. To gesture with a finger to his lips, to cross his hands over his chest, _no no no, don’t let him see you hurting._

It hits Zayn about then, as Louis rolls his eyes from boredom, so sure that Zayn would have more to say. To fight back or refute anything he’s said. He must’ve expected Zayn to physically fight him, to jump up and wrestle the gun from his hand. He expected a show, a spectacle, after his little speech.

But Zayn can’t give him that.

_Not yet._

Because Jesse tried to save him. All those years ago, when Zayn saw it before his very eyes. He wasn’t asleep, he didn’t miss it, and it wasn’t a dream. He watched Tim Bates stab his best friend. He saw it all. He saw Jesse waving at him, begging him to stay hidden, to stay safe. He followed Jesse’s instructions and did as he said. Jesse sensed Tim was about to walk over and see Zayn, and he did whatever he could to prevent it.

Jesse Klein was brave and strong. He didn’t take shit from anyone. He loved the people closest to him fiercely, even though he never admitted it. _Nice and safe, nice and safe, nice and safe._

Now it’s Zayn’s turn. Save the day, save Harry. But without getting either of them hurt. No one else would be killed inside this house, Zayn vows it to himself right then and there. He was done taking shit. It was time to fight back.

He feels Jesse ruffle his hair, like he’s smiling. And if Zayn could, if he really focused, he’s sure he would smile back at Jesse.

_Thanks, Jess. You’re the only reason I’m here._

Louis scoffs again and gets up from the chair. He starts to pace between Harry and the dining room, back and forth, from impatience. It’s unspoken between them, that now Zayn can talk. He’s allowed to. Louis wants him to. But if Zayn says something stupid, Louis might kick him again, or hurt Harry. He can have his excuse to put Zayn and Harry out of their misery. To join the club.

Zayn sends a final prayer up to Jesse, before he zones back in and knows what to do.

Louis turns to him, excited to see the movement from Zayn against the wall. He tries to get to his feet quickly, but it takes a lot longer than it should. He wobbles, his legs almost give out, so he holds a hand to the door frame.

“So what do you want from this, Louis?” Zayn asks, before spitting out more blood. “How does this end? How do you walk out of here after this?”

_Keep him calm. Say positive, affirming words that imply I will make it out of this. That Harry will be fine._

Louis groans and rolls his eyes dramatically. Definitely like Jesse would. “You still don’t _get it_. You always miss the fucking point,” he tuts, shaking his head. “You never look at the scene. Ever. You think you do, with your fucking notes and your fucking folio full of shit. Think you’re smart and can read people, yeah?”

Zayn doesn’t respond.

So Louis says, “Go on and read me, detective. Search for the intent. You tell me.”

He holds his arms out and everything, opens his chest wide, like he’s inviting Zayn to take a scalpel to it and cut him open to see his beating heart. And maybe Zayn should, to prove that he’s not as good as he says he is, as evidenced by the entire case. It collapsed around him and he had no legs to stand on. He knew that. CJ knew that. He fucked it up from the very beginning.

But regardless, Zayn’s here with Louis standing in front of him. He knows the plan, he has his murderer. He has it. He tries to wrack his brain, of how Louis could possibly get away now that it’s all out in the open. Zayn will follow him to the ends of the fucking earth if he has to. And as they lock eyes, the both know it. After hurting Harry, there’s no way Zayn will let him get away without a fight.

But Louis smiles and shakes his head.

“See, your instincts are so very flawed, detective. I knew it then, and it’s still true now.”

“How.”

“See, this is why you drive me fucking crazy,” Louis starts, moving towards him. He brushes his finger across Harry’s cheek again, to tease, but Harry recoils from it.

Just then, Zayn’s phone rings.

It rings loudly, incessantly, from inside his back pocket. The three of them freeze, unsure of what to do. Zayn could ignore it, but he knows it’s CJ. And CJ won’t stop calling until he answers.

“Partner,” he says to Louis with a shrug. _Your call, asshole._

Louis grits his teeth and tosses out a few expletives, like he can’t decide if he should take Zayn’s phone and smash it against a wall. Or let him answer it and get the show on the road.

It takes him a second longer, and then he nods his head. He tells Zayn without telling him, to answer it, but don’t say a fucking word. He even moves behind Harry again, grabs at his hair, and then holds the gun to his temple. _Say anything, and he’s fucking dead._

Harry still won’t open his eyes.

Zayn breathes and reaches for his phone with fumbling fingers.

“Malik,” he answers, trying to keep the waver out of his voice.

“Where the fuck are you?” CJ hisses, clearly weaving his way through the pit to get back to their desks. He probably walked in and saw the absence of Zayn sitting at his computer and freaked. CJ has great instincts.

“Hey,” Zayn says with an easy, calm tone. “Just stepped out for a bit. Cigarette run.”

_“What?”_

“Needed a hit. Sorry.”

“Zayn,” CJ hisses a second time, “I talked to Rayna. She ID’d Tomlinson as the guy in the black clothing, hat over his eyes. She said it’s him for sure.”

“That’s cool,” Zayn says, trying to stay calm. He needs something, anything, to alert his partner that something’s wrong. To get his partner to understand.

“Zayn, where are you?” CJ asks again, this time lower and with more urgency in his tone. Maybe he senses something is off. “Tell me. Say it.”

And then Zayn has it.

_I know this. I know how to do this. I’m a fucking cop._

“Did you – ” CJ starts to say.

But Zayn cuts him off with, “Nah, I’m good, Ceej. I’m fine. No coffee for me. Thanks, though.”

Louis shifts his weight, obviously bored with standing there with the gun to Harry’s head. He’s over it. So then he points the gun at Zayn, right at his forehead, and Zayn gulps. _Please God let CJ figure it out._

“Wait – ”

“Hey, I gotta go,” Zayn interrupts again, “my mom is calling. I’ll see you soon. I’ll call you soon.”

He quickly hangs up the phone, turns it on silent, and tosses it onto the couch. A peace offering. _See, I won’t try anything._

“Good boy,” Louis nods like he’s impressed. “Finally learning how to not be a fucking idiot, aren’t you. Now where were we? Oh yes, my Batman villain speech! You’re wondering how I get out of this little pickle. How I walk away and go live my life, after this. But that’s why you’re a fucking idiot, Zayn. Because you should get it by now. I’m going to hurt little Harry here, and I’m going to make you watch as I kill him slowly. Then I’m going to shoot you in the leg, or maybe the shoulder, so that _I_ can watch. So I get my time in the sun, as you bleed out right here. I want to watch you hurt. Maybe you’ll even cry again.”

Harry realizes it before Zayn does, the final plan. He starts screaming against the tape, his legs and arms trying to move and shift out of the restraints. He knows it. He needs Zayn to know it, as they look at each other once more and have a silent conversation.

_Run, Zayn._

_I can’t._

_He’s not gonna kill you. He’s gonna –_

_I’m not leaving._

_Zayn, go._

_I can’t._

Zayn exhales. Because even without Harry’s silent insistence, he’s starting to get it. He understands the master plan, the thing Louis has been planning ever since he saw Zayn and Harry closing the gap until they were so close, not even a piece of paper could fit between them. They were together, really together. Probably in love, or falling in love, whatever. And Louis can’t have that.

Because Louis won’t let Zayn have a happy ending.

“You’re gonna – kill Harry first, then me, then… yourself.”

Harry screams into the tape. _No no no no_ , he says with his eyes.

“Oh you think we’re all gonna die?” Louis asks, surprised. He moves around to stand in front of Zayn. “A little three-way where we all expire at once? Have a little murder/suicide fun?”

Zayn blinks.

“Please,” Louis rolls his eyes. “Come on, Zayn. Fucking _think_ for once! Use your brain! No, that is not how this is going to work. How don’t you get it yet? That I’m gonna drag it out, detective. _Really_ make it hurt, and not just today. You need to hurt forever. You need to feel this over and over.”

Zayn hisses, he understands. _He wants me to hurt for the rest of my life. My long, long life._ And Zayn’s fucking pissed, if Louis thinks he’s going to kill Harry. So he tries to move away from the wall to fucking tackle Louis to the ground once and for all, gun be damned. But he gets hit with the barrel end of the handgun, straight to the face and it has him reeling. Dizzy again, falling backwards until his head _thunks_ into the wall.

Louis laughs at his lack of balance.

“Not so fast, Detective Malik. Because it goes like this: first Harry, with more knife wounds and blood, before I put a bullet through his head. Then I shoot you, so I can watch you in agony. And finally, I shoot me through the temple.”

Zayn heaves a breath, the blood coming from his nose and mouth faster than ever. He can’t hold a hand to it, it gushes too fast. It’s like Jesse with his stomach: there’s no use.

_He’s going to kill Harry and himself, and make me live with it. He wants me to go on living, so I lose it entirely._

Louis nods and smiles viciously, since they’re all caught up and know the plan inside and out.

“I just need you remember: this was all your doing. I didn’t _want_ to do this, Zayn. I never wanted to hurt people. I just knew I had to, for Lottie,” he says with a solemn face as he backs away like he’s going to grab the knife out of Harry’s leg. “Jesse, my sister, Destiny, Harry. Maybe you’ll even include me, if you think of yourself as that self-righteous. Dead. And once we’re gone, you get to go on knowing it was all because of you. All dead, all that blood on your hands. I want that to _hurt_.”

Zayn can’t listen anymore to this stupid fucking diatribe. He ignores Louis, ignores the harsh words, to instead stare at Harry in the chair, tears dripping over the duck tape over his mouth, the knife in his leg.

_I’m so sorry. I didn’t help anyone, any of you, and I’m sorry I can’t take it back._

Maybe he said that last part out loud, because Louis says, “I’m sorry too, detective. I’m really sorry.”

Louis gives him a manic grin as he rips the tape off of Harry’s mouth. Harry is given exactly five seconds to get used to the feeling in his lips, a breath in and out, before he’s screaming again out into the open room. Louis rips the dripping knife from his leg and wipes it on Harry’s white shirt.

Blood on his shirt. A white stained shirt.

 _Maybe I’m not here,_ Zayn thinks as Louis slices at Harry’s shoulder to fuck up one of his tattoos. _Maybe we’re at home in bed, in our bed, and we’re so happy, our friends hate us. We’re singing that song Harry wrote about us, and I surprise him with how good my voice is. I’m so good. Everyone used to say so._

But then Zayn is slapped across the face, not by Louis, but by Jesse. He blinks.

_Get a grip, Z. Can’t duck out of this one. Can’t fall asleep or ignore it or pretend it’s fine._

_This is it._

_You’re here._

“I’m here,” Zayn whispers to himself, as Harry cries out in pain again from another slice. “I’m here.”

After that, it all happens rather fast.

CJ comes bursting through the front door with his gun held up, his face set, his hair a mess. It worked, the coffee line worked. Zayn always wants coffee. Always. And Ceej figured it out.

In the blink of an eye, Louis quickly turns and shoots CJ square in the chest, with such close proximity, he goes flying backwards and crumbles to the floor.

Zayn watches it happen in slow motion, his mouth open in horror. His partner, _my partner, who I never fucking appreciated. Shot. Dead._

He shakes his head. _Get a grip._

Something over takes him, he spits blood and then sniffs, before charging forward. It catches Louis off guard, he only catches the tail end of Zayn’s fierce yell as he’s tackled to the floor. The knife clambers away, the gun falls from Louis’s hand there onto the floor, as they wrestle. It’s a lot like his fight with Harry that one night, except Zayn feels much weaker. He punches Louis hard, twice, and then Louis scratches at his face to try and reach his eyes. Zayn ducks away from his hand and punches Louis in the stomach.

Zayn feels himself get weaker, as he tries with all of his might to get Louis on his back. And he almost does, he really almost does, after he knees him in the groin and Louis cries out in pain.

But then more cops are there. They all swarm the living room, some in full riot gear, others are just uniforms who must’ve gotten the call a few minutes before. They all fall into the room and towards Zayn and Louis.

They pull Zayn off of him, his arms thrashing, kicking a final time to catch Louis in the face. Louis screams out in anger at being caught, at not accomplishing his little fucked up plan after all.

Someone tries to calm Zayn down as he falls to the floor. He curls into a ball on his side, his head tucked between his arms like it’s a tornado drill. Because it’s impossible. He just saw Harry get stabbed; he’s lost so much blood. He saw his partner get shot; he could already be dead. He finally remembered the repressed memory of seeing Jesse die before his very eyes. It’s too much. Louis was right, it was too much to handle. Zayn was going to crack. He was done for.

But then someone yells out from the other side of the couch that CJ had his vest on. He’s fine.

And then Harry is let out of the tape restraints. He falls to the floor, shrieks from the pain, but won’t let anyone touch him or stop the bleeding. He instead leans over Zayn, moves him onto his back, and stares down at him. Now Harry’s hand is on Zayn’s face as he cries all over his chest.

“He’s fine, he’s fine. We’re fine. We’re okay. I’m okay, you’re okay,” Harry mumbles, his voice hoarse from the screaming. He nods over and over, kisses Zayn’s cheek, his mouth, even around all that blood.

“Nice and safe,” Zayn mumbles to himself, his eyes swimming in and out of focus again, the ceiling a whole mess of different colors.

“Yes we are,” Harry whispers, his voice weaker and weaker from the blood loss. “I love you. I love you.”

_I love you too._

“Did I do it?” Zayn asks, his eyes getting heavier, as more people rush in and try to push Harry away. To attend to both of their wounds. To get Louis fully handcuffed and out into a cruiser.

Louis screams somewhere to their right.

“You did it, babe,” Harry sobs. “You did it. It’s solved. You did good.”

“I did good.”

“We’re okay,” Harry nods and kisses him again.

And that’s what Zayn’s left with, as he loses consciousness on that floor for the second time that night.

Jesse smiles.

_You did good._

Zayn smiles.

_Thanks, J._

And then Zayn’s gone.

 


	7. DAY 86

**DAY 86**

 

_June 13, 2019  
2:14 pm _

Zayn isn’t supposed to count in terms of time anymore, but he finds himself doing it all the same. It’s been almost ninety days since the case, since Destiny died in that house. It’s been almost ninety days since he met Harry.

Three months ago, Zayn’s life changed forever. And not in that cliché way where everything is suddenly better, where blues look bluer and foods taste sweeter. Because ever since the case was officially closed and Louis Tomlinson was carted away to prison to await trial, day to day life is pretty much the same.

No, Zayn’s life is drastically different because he feels different on a cellular level. Somewhere deep inside him, wherever he kept the memory of Jesse’s murder locked up tight, has open and released the rest of his “self.” The things that make him tick, the things he hides, the stuff he never tells anyone, suddenly come bursting out of him whenever possible.

In the time he has off from the station, for the months of May and June, they spend all of their time together. Zayn tells Harry all about his childhood, about Jesse, about the aftermath of being the freak who stepped in blood. He describes the feelings he still gets, the heartache and pain of losing someone so close. Of losing someone so vital to his formative, impressionable years.

It works out well, because the best part about the last eighty-six days has been the quiet conversations in bed where Zayn can shut his mouth for once and let Harry speak. They realized rather quickly, after their shared hospital stay, that it’s all been very Zayn-centric since their first meeting. And Harry, as always, had a lot to say.

Today though, today is a quiet day. A reverent day. They don’t need to speak much because they both have other things on their minds.

In the hot June sun with beads of sweat dripping down their backs, Zayn grabs for Harry’s hand as they weave their way through various gravestones, careful not to step on any. “Bad luck,” Harry says assuredly, kissing the back of Zayn’s warm hand, as he limps along on his bad leg. His hair doesn’t blow in the wind anymore, since he had to cut it all off once Louis pulled a large chunk of it out. But Zayn thinks he likes it.

He looks beautiful.

So Zayn kisses Harry’s hand in return.

They had decided to come because Zayn has never been, not since the day of the funeral. The day he saw his best friend’s casket lowered into the ground, he vowed to never return. But his therapist said it would be good for him, for them, to visit. To leave something for him, to appreciate Jesse Klein in the real world, instead of just the ghost version in his head.

It’s also rather fitting. It’s a nice bookmark on the last few months, since the case is done and packed away in Records. Harry is almost back to being a hundred percent, his permanent limp not so intrusive, and Zayn is slowly coming back to himself. He still has nightmares here and there, but his therapist says that’s to be expected.

Immediately after the final showdown within the Klein house, Zayn and Harry were both carted off to the hospital in separate ambulances. Apparently CJ rode with Zayn, held his hand as they worked on him, since all he had to show from the night was a rather nasty bruise in the center of his chest, from his bullet-proof vest taking a bullet at such close range.

Zayn wasn’t awake for any of it, until he was actually at the hospital and four nurses came into his room. They checked on his broken nose and bruised face, while also discussing the “madness” of the case, how it was all over the news. They were too loud, which had Zayn bolting upright in bed and screaming bloody murder that he needed to find Harry.

They had to sedate him heavily, since he kept waking up screaming, begging to find Harry. They took him to the psych ward, gave him anti-psychotics and benzos so they could legally hold him, and he eventually slept for fifty-two hours straight. A “psychotic break,” they called it. Turns out all he needed was real sleep because his PTSD never went away. Combined with the night in the Klein house, it manifested itself through anxiety, insomnia, and hearing bumps in the night that were never there.

Zayn could’ve told them that from the beginning.

During that time, they kept Harry in the hospital to perform surgery on his leg. The knife and its serrated edge severely fucked up the muscle in his thigh, so it had to be reattached to the bone. They told him he may never walk the same way again, might not be able to dance for hours on end, but that he would be fine.

Harry tried to convince them to let him rest side-by-side next to Zayn’s bed while he finally got the long rest he needed. But they didn’t go for it. The two of them had to wait another day after Zayn woke up to see each other, to fall into each other’s arms like they were goddamn Romeo and Juliet.

Zayn actually laughed when Harry called himself Romeo, and Zayn Juliet. Because it was ridiculous, just like Harry, and yet also very, very true.

Since then, it was all about closing the case properly. Zayn, with CJ by his side for moral support, had to tell his captain all about Jesse Klein and what happened in that house in 2002. He had to hang his head and admit to the entire board city captains that he messed up by not divulging the information sooner. He put himself at risk, and every officer who ran into the house after him.

He told them about that final day, when he realized the map pieces had little pen marks in the corners, how the note on the flowers made it clear that the man had Harry. How he knew it was Louis, so he went home and saw it in disarray. They asked him how he could’ve known that Louis would take Harry to the Klein house, and he never had a great answer. He just knew. It’s what CJ said as well, when Zayn refused coffee, he knew something had happened. He saw Zayn’s fucked up living room and also knew to fly to the Klein house with backup in tow.

It just felt like the right place to be.

Zayn also had to recount every single thing Louis spouted there in the living room, how and when he stabbed Harry, and the whole plan itself. How Louis originally wanted to taunt Zayn with Destiny’s death, and then instead switched to using Harry. The roses from his garden, the map pieces from a map found in Louis’s pocket, the gardener’s twine that matched the twine found in his house. It all made sense, it all tied together, and Louis Tomlinson would eventually be booked on the charge of first-degree murder.

Zayn also recounted his memory from the night Jesse died, to add it to Jesse’s long ago file. He told his sergeant during questioning that his memories finally came back to him, in a time of severe crisis. Back in that same sunroom, he saw it happen like it was yesterday. He didn’t include the part about how it suddenly rushed back because Jesse knew he needed it, but that’s where his mind went.

He made sure to say it over and over again: _Jesse Klein was a hero. Jesse Klein saved my life. Jesse Klein deserves to be remembered as a martyr._ He was even on the phone when they called Jesse’s parents down in Florida, to let them know the recent addition to the case file.

Marcy Klein bawled her eyes out, but thanked Zayn for his lost memory. “Nothing can ever stay lost forever, love,” she said while choking on her own grief.

And isn’t that the truth.

They finally get to Jesse’s grave, near the northwest corner of Westlawn Cemetery. It’s a simple dark grey stone, with Jesse’s name, birth date and death date. Harry shifts around to look at the back of the stone and reads it out to Zayn.

“Loving son, brother, and friend. May angels guide you home.”

Zayn nods because he was the best of friends. No matter what he remembered about Jesse, about the bratty days, the shitty moods, the awful tendencies he had towards kids he disliked… regardless of all of that, Jesse kept Zayn safe. He always kept Zayn safe. And in turn, by learning it that night from the memory flooding back, Zayn was able to save Harry.

It all came down to Jesse Klein and his unwavering loyalty.

He taught Zayn how to save himself, and he never really stopped teaching him.

Harry gives Zayn a minute, to lay the wreath of twigs and greenery down next to the stone, since it was much too soon for them to buy flowers of any kind. He lets Zayn say a few words on his own, because Harry always knows exactly what Zayn needs, before he himself does.

Zayn looks down at Jesse’s name and sniffs, overcome with emotion. It’s been so long, so fucking long since they’ve been near each other, and it’s a lot to handle.

“Nice and safe,” Zayn says with a wet smile, always a man of few words, just like Jesse knew him. “Right, J?”

And they were, nice and safe. Once Louis was locked up and awaiting his trial in October, nothing could hurt them anymore. No stalkers, no weird bouquets or notes showing up at the door, no fear. Zayn still won’t allow Harry to open the curtains at night, no matter how much he begs to see the moon and stars as they fall asleep. But maybe some day.

Then they make their way down the lawn, to another grave. For this one, Harry brought a little cross with a pink bow tied to it. “Catholics,” Harry shrugged, like he had any idea what Catholics got up to or why.

Zayn had to kiss him then, because he found himself kissing Harry at any available opportunity. But especially when Harry did anything kind, or caring, or sweet. Like whenever he chastised Zayn about eating second helpings of dinner, or nudged him to bed an hour earlier than normal. Zayn had to kiss him every single time, because at one point, about ninety days ago, he feared that he’d never see Harry’s beautiful mouth ever again. He had to imagine Harry dead on the floor, covered in blood, and there’s really no way to forget that.

Harry always let him, because Harry knew the feeling. As he told Zayn, as he sat there tied to that chair and listened to Louis’s little monologue, he knew. He knew he was going to die first and that Zayn would have to watch it. He felt the pain of the knife in his leg and the slices to his neck and shoulder, but all he could focus on was _Please don’t let him think this was his fault. I love him. Is this really it? We were supposed to have more time._

Zayn caught himself thinking the exact same thing once upon a time, so they knew: _we know each other deep down, in the hidden places, the things no one knows._

And that was when they said they loved each other for the first time.

They arrive at the second stone. Charlotte Tomlinson, died at age twenty-one.

Zayn went back and looked at her case for real, without the threat of Louis hanging over him. So pretty, once upon a time, before the drugs set in. Long blonde hair, big eyes, always smiling in pictures with her boyfriend. Zayn combed through the file, to find the boyfriend’s name. He wanted to look into his very first case, not for Louis’s sake, but to see if he did miss something. To listen and really take in what he might’ve overlooked.

It was true: she did have slight strangulation marks on her neck. They exhumed her and found some DNA under her long acrylic nails, the clean ones she didn’t use to snort from.

Even though they were supposed to be resting and taking a break from work, when Zayn and CJ finally found her old boyfriend, some junkie down in Lincoln, they questioned him for over an hour. Zack admitted he hurt her in a fight when they were high, just a hand around her neck to push her away from him. She pushed him back, scratched his face, punched his jaw.

And when she overdosed, he panicked. He drove her out to the Missouri and left her there along the river. Then he ran far away and never looked back.

Zack said it was an accident. He said he felt guilty. He swore it.

He saw her die and didn’t try to help.

It’s eaten away at him for years.

And it was then, around the time when Zayn got pretty low thinking that he should’ve been there to save his fucking friend, to call for help before he died, to chase Tim away, that it came to him. It was after looking in Zack’s eyes, seeing the hurt and pain there from years of self-sabotage and blame, that it sort of dissipated. Because for so many people, for all of them, it was the same fucking cycle over and over again: it’s people blaming themselves for the deaths of others.

Zack broke down sobbing, finally admitted the things he did. The things he didn’t do.

Zayn ended up charging him with assault and obstruction of justice, for leaving a crime scene. Because it was true all along: the drugs found in Charlotte’s system were enough to OD on. And it looks like she really, truly did. Zack will now serve a year in prison, for hurting her and leaving her like she was some nuisance he had to dispose of.

Zayn thought about sending Louis a letter, something for him to read in his cell, to come to terms with it. And then he talked himself out of it, about twenty times.

In the end, Zayn decided that he had peace of mind about Jesse’s death. And as a detective who worked on Lottie’s case, it was only fair to alert the next of kin what happened. Even though Louis was a murderer and psychopath, Zayn sent him the letter. He did finish it with, “This is the last time you will ever hear from me. Don’t contact me or my family under any circumstances.” It felt right.

Sometimes he wonders what Louis did when it arrived, if it made him angry that Zayn had been half right about Lottie’s death, and now found closure on his own. Or maybe he cried because his baby sister could finally rest peacefully. Zayn will never know because he refuses to give Louis Tomlinson any more of his time or energy.

Lottie’s case was closed.

Zayn and CJ, partners for life, finally solved it the right way.

Zayn finally paid attention to the details.

There are days when it especially hurts. Zayn still struggles with the guilt: guilt from not helping Jesse the night he died, guilt over repressing the real memory of what Jesse did for him, the guilt he couldn’t stop from overflowing that said Zayn should’ve _done_ something. He thinks about Lottie’s case a lot. Guilt. And then more guilt because of Destiny and the nagging thought that it never should’ve happened. He speaks with Destiny’s mother about every other week because it seems to help the both of them grieve. And he plans to go visit her grave eventually too. To quiet the constant guilt that eats away at him.

But he’s working on it.

He tries to remember that he was a child. A poor, defenseless child, up against the big, bad world. He can’t blame himself for keeping quiet and hidden. It’s what Jesse wanted. And that even if he did look further into Lottie’s case when it happened, he never could’ve anticipated that Louis would do what he did. Because according to Louis, Zack was a murderer instead of just a junkie and a coward. Nothing would’ve made a difference.

And Zayn can’t blame himself for the actions of others anymore.

He also has Harry. Harry, _my Harry_ , who brings him down when he floats too high, or raises him up when he sinks too low. And it was Harry who told him once that adults save themselves. So when he feels especially sad about everything, he looks in the mirror and gives himself a pep talk.

He uses the words Jesse said to him their final night, when he showed Zayn a new skill. When he propped his best friend up, just because he could. Because he knew Zayn worshipped him.

Zayn says it when he needs the boost.

“It gets easier. You did good.”

Because maybe Jesse Klein really _did_ give him advice way back when, the kind they write about in obituaries and wax poetic about at funerals. “Wise words” from an angel, because “only the good die young.”

Jesse was wise. He wasn’t quite an angel, and Zayn would never let anyone say otherwise. But he was good.

He was the best.

 

\---

 

**EPILOGUE**

 

_Now_

They move to a new house, far away from the roses across the street, and Lexi’s flirting eyes, and the cramped space they once fought in. It’s a huge yellow house on a block a lot like the old Klein block, near the Catholics and Mary statue. It has a big front porch, a huge den for their dog to run around in, and a finished basement for Harry’s gym and studio space. Zayn has his own room up in the attic, to read and work. His “office,” Harry calls it. But it doesn’t even have a desk. Just a couch that CJ sometimes crashes on, a lamp, and an ashtray.

Zayn likes to go for walks sometimes, to look up at Mary near the Catholic church, whenever Harry has a loud music session at the house. He stands with his hands in his pockets and tries to guess what the artist wanted to convey in Mary’s expression. She looks peaceful. Pretty.

Other times Harry goes with him, because they find it a bit hard to be apart for long periods of time. Their track record so far hasn’t been too good, after all. They walk and walk, their conversations flow in and out, and it’s peaceful. Nice.

Harry never has to remind Zayn that it’s quiet, that there aren’t any ghosts in the house. Because Zayn doesn’t hear them anymore. It was like once he finally remembered that night, and what really happened, he didn’t need Jesse around to guide him. Maybe it was just in his head, but maybe Jesse really was there sometimes, and now didn’t have to be.

He figures he “heard ghosts” the night Jesse died, that’s what his brain supplied him with as it held the memories from him for all those years.

Not much use for ghosts anymore.

Zayn likes to think it really was Jesse, somehow. And that his job was done. He made sure Zayn was safe. Closed up and protected, behind locked doors and covered windows.

Zayn still rarely sleeps longer than a few hours at a time, because some things never change. He jerks awake, screams every so often, needs Harry’s shirt to hold onto. But when he wakes up peacefully, like his body just wants him to be alert in case he misses something, he strains his ears to find a voice or a whisper or a knock.

It’s always quiet.

So he curls himself around Harry’s back, and tells himself it’s quiet. After all this time, he makes sure to prioritize the feeling for both of them: nice and safe, just like Jesse said. Happy. Jesse just wanted everyone to be happy. So Zayn and Harry try to be fiercely happy every single day.

It’s not perfect, but nothing ever really is.

Everything is okay and the voices don’t whisper anymore.

Zayn’s okay. They both are.

Safe.

Free.

 

**THE END**

 


End file.
